


The Adversary

by Xanthe



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 03:17:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 131,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanthe/pseuds/Xanthe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder is abducted, and subjected to repeated rapes and torture, during which he becomes emotionally and psychologically involved in a deadly battle of wits with his torturer. The stakes are high, as the prize for winning is possession of Mulder's soul — and his future.</p><p>As this intense, award-winning story unfolds, Mulder is forced to confront his past, unravel his complex relationship with Skinner and face up to his own psychological demons — and, in the process, find a way to defeat a formidable adversary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

A phone call informs me that Charles is on his way over. I’m a little surprised because it’s been less than a week since his last visit, and he’s usually a much more infrequent patron. I’ve often had the feeling that he despises my salon – or maybe himself for needing it. However, despite his disdain, when the mood is upon him he’s always more than happy to take full advantage of the recreational facilities his rank makes available to him here.  
  
He’ll be here in half an hour, so I call the lounge, and have Emilia standing by ready. She’s in her mid-thirties, a beautiful, honey-haired woman, with large breasts, and wide, curving hips. Charles has always had a taste for mature, intelligent ladies he can wine and dine, and later retire with to one of our rooms to make love. I have never known him to be anything other than a gentleman with women – he saves his ill temper and his well-hidden streak of brutality for other men. There are always boys available in my salon of course, but he is rarely interested in them, so I have every expectation that tonight he will dine privately with Emilia in one of our comfortable suites.  
  
Charles looks tired. He’s dressed as impeccably as ever, but his face is gray and his shoulders tense; his work has clearly taken a toll on him. He’s ushered into my salon by the butler, and I silently offer him a glass of brandy, which he takes, and gulps down, in a manner completely at odds with his usual charming demeanor. I say nothing; the Elite come here for rest and relaxation - they don’t want to be annoyed by prattling questions. I have my most recent trainee, Luke, by my side. He’s newly broken, and it’s important not to let them out of my sight for long during this initial period. Luke is far too vulnerable to be allowed time to think or worry right now. He needs reassurance, which I give him by stroking his curly head occasionally, and giving him orders – usually to perform meaningless little tasks, but it gives him some sense of importance and he’s eager to be of use to me, as they always are after breaking.  
  
Charles loosens his tie, sits in the armchair with a weary sigh, and lights up a cigarette.  
  
"I have Emilia waiting for you," I tell him, and he looks up sharply, a dark expression in his eyes.  
  
"I don’t want her." His eyes wander over to Luke, who is kneeling naked at my feet. "He’ll do," he says, in a throaty voice edged with anger. I try not to allow my flicker of annoyance to show on my face.  
  
"Let me call you another," I tell him smoothly, unprepared for this. "Luke isn’t ready yet."  
  
"He’s ready enough for what I require," Charles replies in his usual languid tones, taking a drag on his cigarette.  
  
Luke is 20 years old, with curly dark hair, and large brown eyes. He’s been a pleasure to train – very easily broken - and I have no desire to hand him over at this stage in the process to Charles. The hard work has all been done with Luke, and I’ve been concentrating on showing him affection after all the pain. A night with Charles will considerably set back the trust we’ve built between us, and that's annoying. The process of training new recruits is very finely tuned, and I don’t like it interrupted before completion.  
  
"He’s only just been broken," I tell Charles, refilling his glass of brandy. "He hasn’t been fully trained. Another boy would suit you better."  
  
"I like the look of this one."  
  
Charles likes to play pointless little domination games. I think he needs them – or rather he needs to know that he commands respect for his status within the Syndicate, and this is one way he can get the affirmation he requires. I consider the matter. Luke, poor love, is kneeling by my side, those brown eyes eager, and devoted. He’s just learned to trust me, to eat from my fingers – it’ll be a shame to throw him to the wolves at this point in his training. I glance back at Charles, weighing the matter up. He is, of course, entitled to take whichever of our trainees he wants. It’s my job, after all, to provide recreational material for the entire Syndicate – with the hectic pace of their lives they often have little time for romances of their own, and finding a mate can be time consuming. It’s only right that they should have access to their sexual partners of choice whenever they require them. Charles is an important man as well – it wouldn’t do to anger him, however irritating or personally inconvenient his choice is to me. I smile, and offer him a cigarette from a small, silver case.  
  
"Of course. If you want Luke then by all means, take him. Just remember he’s a little unschooled. I wouldn’t want his performance to reflect unsatisfactorily upon me. I do pride myself on providing the most willing and able trainees for your use, Charles."  
  
He grunts, and then gives a little chuckle. "Professional pride, Laurence?" He asks with a raised eyebrow.  
  
"Of course," I reply with a little smile. "I’ve been doing my job for a very long time after all – I wouldn’t want my skills called into question."  
  
"Oh, your skills have always been first rate – that’s why we pay you so well," he laughs.  
  
"Thank you." I incline my head modestly but his words do irk me somewhat. As if I do this job purely for the money. I like to think that my pride in a job well done reveals me to be more of a connoisseur than a mere mercenary, which is how Charles clearly classifies me. "Would you like supper first, or the boy?"  
  
"Him." He finishes his drink with one gulp, and nods at the boy.  
  
"Very well. Room eleven is free. Follow me." I snap my fingers at Luke who gets up, looking confused. Poor boy. He has only been trained by myself and my assistants thus far – he has never been with one of the Elite. I would not have chosen Charles for his first experience, but it’s irrelevant really. This is his life from now on so he might as well become accustomed to it. I usher the boy along to room eleven, Charles following behind, unlock the door, and show them inside. There is a bed and a fridge, fruit in a glass bowl on a small table, armchairs, and soft, warm lighting. I don’t think any of this will make Luke’s experience this evening a pleasant one.  
  
"Luke, Charles wishes to spend some time with you. Be as obedient with him as you are with me," I tell the boy smoothly, and his eyes widen in alarm.  
  
"Sir…are you leaving me here…?" He whispers, panic stricken.  
  
"Yes, be good, Luke." I ruffle his dark curls regretfully. Poor lamb. It really won’t be easy for him. Then I nod to Charles, and withdraw.  
  
An hour passes. I purposefully do not eavesdrop on my clients; it would be discourteous. There have, of course, been fatalities – but they are frowned upon, and I do complain to the upper echelons when it happens. All that hard work wasted for a few moments of pointless, savage lust. It’s irritating. Finally, a ring on one of the bells informs me that Charles is done, and requires my presence. I go to room eleven, and knock politely, before entering. Luke is huddled in a corner of the room, sporting a badly bruised lip, and a discolored jaw. He’s whimpering, his arms crossed over his body as if to ward off further harm. Charles is wearing one of the plain red silk robes that we provide for clients.  
  
"The boy resisted me," Charles grunts. I glance at Luke again. He starts to cry; he knows I’ll punish him later.  
  
"Well, I did say he was unschooled. However, judging by the tension in your shoulders when you arrived here, a struggle might have been just what you needed: something to raise the temperature of the blood. Hmm?" A smile tugs the corners of my lips and Charles laughs, and lights the cigarette I’m offering from the small silver case.  
  
"Damn it, Laurence, you’re so good at this!" he exclaims.  
  
"I like to think so." I incline my head. "The boy will be whipped though – obviously he has to learn. Now, why don’t you return to the salon and I’ll join you there shortly?" Charles nods, moving his shoulders slowly, as if they are stiff and pain him, and leaves the room.  
  
I turn, and gaze at Luke for a long time. He is unsure just how angry I am with him, and his whimpering becomes more soulful.  
  
"Be quiet, boy. You survived," I chide softly. "I’m sorry that your first experience with one of the elite had to be with Charles, as he can be a little demanding, but you do have to learn your place and purpose. Come here and let me examine you." He comes, quickly, without protest – he is broken to my commands after all. He’s bruised in many places, and his ass has belt marks across it, but the rectal bleeding isn’t as bad as I’d feared. "Run along to the infirmary," I tell him. He nods, and starts to scamper, naked, across the room, his beautiful little cock swinging against his thighs. "And Luke," I stop him before he gets to the door, and he turns, a questioning look on his face. "I’ll visit you this evening before I retire. 12 strokes with your whip."  
  
His eyes fill with tears, but I’ve trained him not to anger me by pleading for lenience. He swallows hard, nods, and runs out of the room. I smile, ruefully, and shake my head. Ah, the pleasures of training the dear creatures to my will and word – it never fades, even after all these years, although I’ve been a little jaded of late. I wish Luke had been more of a challenge – I am now so good at what I do that few of the recruits present me with the real satisfaction I used to find in my job. Maybe I’m even a little bored. It’s still good, but I long for a struggle, for something new, and exciting – and for an opportunity to be really creative.  
  
I return to the salon. Charles is sitting in one of the armchairs by the fire, puffing on his cigarette, and looking much less stressed than when he first came in. I’m pleased about that – it is my job to ease the stresses on our operatives after all, and he has a great weight upon his shoulders. I’m told he performs his duties with diligence, passion, and care – and I have enormous respect for him. A terrified little trainee is a small price to pay for taking some of the pressure off this great man.  
  
"You look tired - I do hope everything is well," I say, pouring him a glass of brandy. He accepts it, and thoughtfully washes the liquor around in the glass.  
  
"Yes. There are just a lot of problems in my work right now." He rubs his eyes wearily.  
  
"I could call the masseur," I offer, and he smiles. "I noticed your shoulders were tense."  
  
"Thank god for you, Laurence," he murmurs in a heartfelt tone. "Taking care of us all."  
  
"As you are taking care of us – all of us; the entire world in fact. You deserve a little respite and care. It’s the least I can do. I’m sorry the boy wasn’t pleasing."  
  
"Oh, he was," Charles chuckles. "And I’m sorry that I was a little…rough with him. You’re right; his struggles did excite me."  
  
"Well then – a satisfactory result all around." I sit down on the armchair facing his, and take a sip of my water, regarding him. He must once have been a handsome man, but now he’s careworn, and he stoops where he must once have stood very tall and proud. The amount of cigarettes he goes through can’t be good for him; his leathery face is lined around the lips – the sure sign of a life-long, heavy smoker. "Would you like to talk, Charles?" I offer. He often does like to talk. There are few people he can unburden to after all, and I am the soul of discretion. I enjoy my work too much, and the perks that go with it, to jeopardize it in any way.  
  
"It’s the same old thing, Laurence," he sighs.  
  
"Ah. The regrettable Agent Mulder is causing you another headache."  
  
"One headache too many," he growls.  
  
"Forgive me – I’ve never understood why you don’t just have him killed." I sip my water again, and Charles sighs, and gazes into the fire, as if contemplating some great secret.  
  
"I can’t. He’s valuable to us… I wish he was obedient as well. He jeopardizes everything with his foolhardy crusades, and his ridiculous idealism. I offered him a job once; I just wish he’d taken it. If I could have had some time with him, made him see…" Charles closes his fist angrily.  
  
"From all you’ve told me you’d have your work cut out," I chuckle. "It doesn’t sound as if your Agent Mulder is very malleable."  
  
"He isn’t – that's why it would be so satisfying to…" Charles trails off, and stares into the fire again. "Damn, but if he weren’t so important, I’d…" He clenches both fists this time. He isn’t a man given to dramatic outbursts so I know this must be serious.  
  
"You should send him here," I murmur, taking another sip of water. "He sounds like just the kind of challenge I’m ready for."  
  
Charles bursts out laughing. "I think even you might find your legendary success rate threatened by Fox Mulder," he comments wryly.  
  
"I’d enjoy it," I say, surprising myself. "He’s just a man after all. I’ve broken dozens of them. And I’ve been jaded of late. I’d like to try something new."  
  
"You’re serious?" Charles turns to face me, his expression suddenly animated, and cruelly dark. I know that he is imagining Fox Mulder writhing under my carefully brutal ministrations, and, to put it bluntly, that arouses him.  
  
"Why not?" I glance up, amused by the whole idea. "He’s been a thorn in your side for a long time, Charles. You can’t kill him, but you need him tamed. Well, that’s what I do here, isn’t it? You bring me the raw material, and I shape the dear creatures for their new lives as sexual playthings." Not just that though - some of those who are brought here show initiative, and eventually work their way out of the lounge. They become valued operatives in their own right, with the freedom to make use of all the Syndicate’s facilities - including the trainees - themselves. I’ve noted how few of them turn down the chance to avail themselves of that privilege when it’s offered. It amuses me considering how hard some of them struggled and fought me during the breaking process.  
  
"No. It’s…insane…" Charles says, although the idea still clearly enchants him.  
  
"You’re right," I sigh.  
  
"First off, he’s far older than your usual recruits," Charles continues, rolling his brandy around in his glass. "Not as young and impressionable as you like them."  
  
"All the more challenging." I take a long, deep drink of my water. I really am excited. I’ve heard so much about Agent Fox Mulder – not just from Charles either. The man is clearly a menace. I’d love to see what I could do with him. I haven’t met anyone yet that I haven’t been able to break – given enough time. I have no doubt that Agent Mulder will be hard – but those are the ones who give me the most satisfaction, and his age doesn’t bother me. It just gives me all the more material to play with, in fact.  
  
"You’d have to be careful not to kill him," Charles says, half convinced, despite himself.  
  
"I’ve never killed a trainee yet," I point out politely. I leave that to the less self-disciplined of our operatives, after all.  
  
"We want him obedient – able to take instruction, to dance to our tune."  
  
"I’m sure I could manage that."  
  
"But still able to function in the outside world. Still able to do his job." He looks up at me, his eyes dark and full of anticipation.  
  
"Your own assistant started out as a trainee with me," I point out. "He doesn’t have any problems functioning in the outside world, does he? And I believe he’s shown admirable initiative in his time." I smile into my water. Charles hasn’t always approved of his assistant’s little displays of 'initiative', and has even sent him back here for me to punish on more than one occasion. A little correction was all it took to have that particular young man back on track. The trainees never forget me – I can reduce them to quivering wrecks even when they’ve reached middle age, and become confident, ruthless operatives. I like to think I hold a special place in their hearts.  
  
"I would need to get authorization from the others," Charles murmurs, lost in thought. I feel a wave of heady euphoria course through me. This is just what I need to complete my illustrious career. I’m growing old – sixty next year - and I’ve learned so much about my trade during my years working for the Syndicate. Fox Mulder will be precisely the person to test the full range of my expertise and knowledge on – the culmination of my art.  
  
"Of course. Let them know that I’m happy to help if required. I have always been happy to help in my own way. This is my contribution to our cause, Charles. I know that training these boys and girls is minor work compared to the great sacrifices that you and the other esteemed Elite have made over the years, but, small though it is, I like to think I’ve helped in my own way."  
  
"You have, Laurence. You’ve taken very good care of all of us, and provided the most diverting distractions," Charles affirms, and my heart glows.  
  
"I’ve done my best." We exchange grave nods. I reach out and press a bell to summon the butler. Charles and I sit in companionable silence, both of us still musing the unexpected turn our conversation just took. When the butler arrives I instruct him to have the masseur get ready for a visitor – and put the chef on stand by for Charles to dine later. Charles gets up, still rolling his stiff shoulders, and looks at me, with a new expression of respect in his hazel eyes.  
  
"You know, I’ve never been sure about what you do here, Laurence," he says, "but this idea…well, it fascinates me. I haven’t been able to bring Agent Mulder in line by any other means. I’m intrigued."  
  
"And regretful?" I note something else in his eyes.  
  
"I’ll just be sorry to see his fire go, that’s all. I’ve done many things in my time, Laurence – taken action that was personally distasteful to me but had to be done. You, on the other hand…" he considers me for a moment. "I’ve often wondered about your work. Don’t the screams bother you? How do you sleep at night?" He leans forward, and I can smell the liquor on his breath.  
  
"I’m a professional," I reply disarmingly. "I’ve never killed a man, Charles. I’ve never had that on my conscience." Unlike you, I think, in silent reproach. He has no business asking questions about my conscience. "I know that I provide a service, and I’m proud to belong to such a great group of men – all dedicated to saving our world. It’s an honor. I hope I’ve made your lives a little easier, and more pleasurable along the way. So many of you have given up any hope of normal lives, or marrying…I hope I’ve made up for that sacrifice in some small way."  
  
He smiles, barely listening to my spiel. "Yes, but you enjoy it, don’t you?" He asks, still standing too close, in a stance designed to intimidate. It doesn’t work with me. I’ve played and won too many of these domination games in my time. I can see the fascination in his eyes. He knows what he is capable of, but he’s fascinated by what I might have done, and seen. My work is so very different to his, and yet curiously similar at the same time.  
  
"Oh yes," I murmur, with a little smile. "Of course I enjoy my work, Charles. That is why I hope you will consider this evening’s proposition; I’d like to show you the full extent of my skills, and who better to help me prove them to you than your very own bete noir, Agent Mulder?"  
  
He nods, recognizing in me an equal, someone who is prepared to enter the darkness in search of the greater good – somebody prepared to make that supreme sacrifice of self. More than that, I can see that he is wondering whether I could break him and the answer is, of course, that I could, and if it was asked of me I would – without a qualm or second thought. He knows that, and fears it. He has so much power, so much authority but at the end of the day he is just flesh and blood as we all are, and I know how to bring flesh and blood to its knees, and bend it to my will. Charles’s eyes flicker with the fire of that knowledge, and I know that he fears me for my skills – and he isn’t a man who likes being afraid. In some way, condemning Mulder to me will be his substitute for undergoing the process itself. If Mulder resists me Charles will know that he could have done so as well, and if the Agent submits to me, and breaks, then Charles will know that he, also, would have the same lack of strength. I have no idea why his own sense of identity is so deeply tied to Agent Mulder but it is. Intriguing.  
  
"I’ll let you know," Charles says in his smooth, languid tones, and then he leaves.  
  
Luke is waiting in his cell when I go down. He scrambles over to me when I enter, and kneels, looking up at me pathetically.  
  
"I’m sorry, sir," he whispers, his eyes reddened by crying.  
  
"Oh, my dear boy. This was most unfortunate. Just when we were starting to enjoy ourselves as well, hmm?" I tip up his chin, and look into those large, dark lashed eyes.  
  
"I’m sorry. He was just so rough…" Luke whimpers pathetically.  
  
"Quiet!" I snap, in a change of tone that scares and confuses him. "He’s a member of the Elite, Luke – your superior. You must never ever speak a bad word against any member of the Elite. Charles works very hard and is entitled to take his pleasure wherever he can find it. You are a trainee – you should be honored by his touch. You’ll never get ahead if you don’t learn how to please the Elite, Luke. One day you could be like Charles, one of the great men who work in our Syndicate, but you won’t achieve that goal if you continue to behave like a scared, spoiled child. Go and bring me your whip."  
  
He goes quickly, and returns to my side with the whip. It’s a single strand of worn leather – worn out on him. I start each new recruit with his or her own whip, and can measure their progress by its wear. Some, like Charles’s pretty but truculent assistant, go through quite a few of these whips. Others, like Luke, need only one. He gets into position quickly, placing his hands spread-eagled on the wall, legs wide apart, as he has been shown on numerous occasions. The whip leaves a welt wherever I stroke it. I always go hard; if a whipping is necessary then it should be delivered at maximum strength or not at all. Luke is soon sobbing abjectly, but when it is over, he takes the whip from my hands as he has been schooled, and replaces it over his bed where it belongs, and where it serves as a constant reminder of the penalty for poor behavior.  
  
"Go to sleep," I tell him, not unkindly, pulling aside the blankets on his bed. He slips between them, shivering, and looks at me longingly for some sign of affection. I sigh – newly broken trainees, while adorable, can be very wearying. I sit on the bed beside him, brush back his curls, and kiss his forehead. "You’re progressing very well, Luke," I praise him. He relaxes, and leans into my caressing hand. I sit with him for a few minutes to help nurture the bond between us, and when his breathing deepens, I get up and leave. He’s like a child, learning to leave its mother for the first time. However, if the proposition I made this evening is accepted, then I may have to terminate the training process with Luke and send him out into the lounge earlier than is my usual habit.  
  
I retire to my own suite of rooms. I have a large, exquisitely decorated bedroom containing a huge bed, a Jacuzzi, a desk, and other little accoutrements but I do not sleep there except when I am bringing along a new recruit. My real bedroom is a small, Spartan room with a narrow, single bed, decorated in the stark simplicity of black and white. I like it for its clean lines, and uncluttered feel. It is my respite, and my sanctuary, where I plan my strategies and conquests. Nobody is allowed to sleep here with me; nobody may even enter this room. This place is mine, and mine alone. I close the door behind me, undress, and then slowly don the ivory silk pajamas that are my usual sleeping attire. It is my habit to read for quite some time before sleeping; I need to empty my mind of the dramas of the day. It’s just as I’m losing myself in the labyrinthine wonders of James Joyce’s beautiful mind, that I am interrupted by the telephone. I recognize Charles’s voice at once.  
  
"Laurence, I’ve spoken to the others. It’s been agreed," he says in those quiet, intense tones. I feel a surge of warmth inside – and almost drop my book in surprise. It’s been a long time since I felt such a strong emotion. I try to identify it: tingly, a feeling of nervousness in the pit of my stomach – and excitement. I realize that what I’m feeling is anticipation.  
  
"That’s good, Charles," I breathe softly down the phone. "When can I expect delivery of our latest recruit?"  
  
"Soon," he replies with a little chuckle. "Very soon."  
  
*****  
  
Mulder stopped at a mall on his way home from the Hoover Building, and wandered around aimlessly for a while, looking in the stores, and feeling like a stranger in a strange land. Shopping was something he tended to do twice a year – once for his mother’s birthday and once for Scully’s so it felt weird to be doing it now, in the middle of a workday – as if he was playing hooky from school. He had gone to work this morning as usual, only to be unceremoniously thrown out of his office by the head of Human Resources, aided and abetted by a Scully who had looked as if she was trying hard not to laugh at his most unusual predicament. He was told that his leave time had now stockpiled to such an extent that if he didn’t take a week’s immediate vacation he’d be suspended, without pay. A form had been waved in his face with Skinner’s signature on it, and that had been that. So he was faced with a weeklong unwanted and unplanned for vacation when he had expected to be buried up to his neck in files, which was how he liked to spend his time. He had long since stopped viewing work as work – it was his life.  
  
Mulder withdrew a sum of cash from an ATM, ate his way through a burger, and then wandered around a bookstore for a couple of hours, finding the whole process of having leisure time nerve wracking, and stressful. It was so hard to just switch off, and relax. He liked being buried in a case, working his butt off to find the answer, following clues, and making phone calls to unravel mysteries – that was his idea of relaxation, and he realized he was actually feeling depressed about the prospect of a whole week spent trying to fill his time some other way. The Gunmen were fun but… a whole week spent playing computer games with them? Mulder stared sightlessly at the books in front of him, wondering what the hell was wrong with him that the idea of vacation time filled him with such dread. He’d often thought that if he had some time there were places he’d like to visit, and now he had the opportunity, but the truth was that the idea of all this time on his hands depressed him. He knew all too well the demons that crowded back in when he wasn’t occupying his mind with X Files and conspiracies. He could defeat the demons with the weapons of exhaustion and constant activity, but when those weapons were taken away from him by well meaning friends… Mulder took a deep breath. He needed a project – maybe he could write a paper for one of the journals he occasionally contributed to. It would be a good time to write up some case files, maybe with an eye to publication. My Life As A Ghostbuster, By An FBI Agent, he considered, grinning. Mutants and Monsters – an Expert’s Guide. A small boy became entangled around Mulder’s ankles and was called away by an over-anxious father.  
  
"Jamie! Sorry if he’s bothering you," the man said, lifting up his small, blond haired son.  
  
"No problem," Mulder said, smiling at the boy, filled with a sudden wave of sadness. Damn Skinner and Scully for this. He didn’t want time to think about how regular folks lived, or the dreams of a normality that he had long ago turned his back on. What was his life? Was this what he’d wanted it to be, what he’d dreamed of? This lonely existence?  
  
Shopping clearly wasn’t going to be the answer. He’d have to find something else to occupy him, or his own over-active mind would drive him insane. He selected a book at random, something that would occupy him for couple of hours if nothing else, paid for it, and jogged back to the parking garage. An empty evening stretched ahead of him. He hoped there was something good on TV – a really bad old movie, maybe. Or maybe he’d just dig into his porn collection, but he usually saved that for his frequent insomniac nights, and even then he was rarely assured of any release. Perhaps there was a movie he could go to see…anything to fill up the looming desert of spare time that threatened to unsettle the uneasy truce he had with his own demons. He reached his car, pulled out his keys, and slid into the driver’s seat.  
  
"One whole week." He rested his head on the steering wheel and sighed. The first thing he noticed when he looked up was that there was someone sitting in the seat behind him, reflected in his rearview mirror. The next thing he noticed was that something wet and smelly was being placed over his face. He tried to shout, but only succeeded in taking an inhalation of whatever was on the rag instead, and the world began to swim. He was unconscious within seconds.  
  
*****  
  
Nothing compares to the moment when a new recruit is delivered. Nothing. There are many highlights to the breaking process – the first coupling, the first, faltering confidences, moments of revelation, and betrayal, and not least the exquisite joy of the actual breaking itself – and the subsequent sweetness of winning trust, and giving comfort to the newly born trainees. Still, the moment of delivery is especially beautiful – and one I like to savor. I am called at 4 pm and recognize Charles’s voice immediately.  
  
"Prepare for a delivery," he says. "Two hours," and then the line goes dead. I sit there for a moment, just enjoying the anticipation. Two hours. In two hours time I will begin my greatest challenge. Oh, I do hope he struggles. I hope he is hard to break, and resistant, and challenging. I hope his mind is truly as bright as I have been told, and he is as independent and wild as I have been led to believe. I do not want an easy victory. I want this to take time, and I want to enjoy every single second.  
  
Luke is sitting by my side, eager to be of use to me, but the time has come to send him to his duties. He really requires a few more weeks to complete the training process, but he’s malleable, and easy going – he’ll be fine.  
  
"Luke, I want you to go and clear out your cell," I tell him softly. He looks at me questioningly, his doe-brown eyes alarmed. "The time has come for you to spread your wings a little. You’ll take up residence in the lounge with the other trainees."  
  
I use the bell to call Brady – he’s in charge of the trainees once they leave my care. He’s a big, bluff man, not very imaginative but then he doesn’t have to be to preside over the lounge. He simply needs to keep order, and administer discipline where required. He must ensure the trainees are always clean, and their rooms kept in an orderly fashion; that they are available for use, willing, and in good shape. Any trainee backsliding, or unpleasing to a client is sent back to me, or my assistants, for Remedial Treatment. It doesn’t usually take much to remind them of their initial breaking, and after a couple of days their attitude improves remarkably and they can be returned to the lounge with renewed zeal for their duties.  
  
"You have a new trainee to take to the lounge," I inform Brady, who nods, and inspects Luke with a predatory glance. He always tries out each new trainee himself before putting him or her to service. He needs to know their strengths and weaknesses, and which members of the Elite they’ll appeal to.  
  
"Please, sir…" Luke looks up at me, with an expression of despair in his eyes. I smile, and tuck one of his curls behind his ear.  
  
"Now, Luke, don’t force me to punish you," I tell him firmly. "You belong to the Syndicate, not just to me, and it’s time to go and serve them to the best of your ability."  
  
"But I’ll miss you, sir," he whispers.  
  
"Of course you will." I run my thumb along the side of his cheek. "You’ve been a very dear boy, but you can’t stay here with me forever."  
  
"But I want to." He looks close to tears.  
  
"Luke, what have you learned about wanting?" I ask him in a firm tone. His eyes widen.  
  
"That I must only want what the Syndicate requires me to want," he replies.  
  
"That’s right. If you serve them well you’ll be rewarded. If you don’t, then you’ll be returned to me for Remedial Treatment. You won’t like that, Luke," I warn, and his eyes are radiating panic now, as he remembers his breaking.  
  
"No, sir. I’ll be good, I promise," he says sweetly.  
  
"Good boy." I stand up, gesture him to his feet, and plant a kiss on his curly head. "Run along with Brady now. It’s been a pleasure working with you, Luke," I tell him gently.  
  
"Yes, sir. Sir…" He turns as he reaches the door. "You won’t forget me will you, sir?" He asks hopefully, still in need of reassurance, which shows that he’s really leaving me too soon.  
  
"Of course not, Luke," I murmur, and he responds with a beautiful, beaming smile, and then Brady puts a hand on his shoulder, and takes my newest trainee away. I didn’t lie to him. I won’t forget him. I haven’t forgotten any of my recruits – I remember each and every one. I remember their stories, and their struggles, their moment of delivery, and their moment of breaking. I wouldn't be able to forget any of them. However, the moment he has left the room, Luke, with his adolescent dreams and dramas, and the small agonies of his young life, is consigned to the very back of my mind. I have someone new to concentrate on now, someone who will take all my energy and every single ounce of my ingenuity to subdue, and, eventually, break. I’m beside myself with excitement.  
  
I prepare the Delivery Room with extra care. This will be the new recruit’s home for the next few days, after all. Later he will be transferred to Luke’s cell, to complete the process, but upon initial delivery I’ve found that concentrated spells of deprivation and physical discomfort, combined with sessions of intense pain, work best. The room is not particularly large – I prefer a small space to increase the claustrophobia of the event for the recruit – and help focus his mind only on what is happening to his body, without distraction. There’s simply an adjustable table, complete with plastic bindings, chains, and tie down restraints at regular intervals along each side. Hanging from the ceiling are several horizontal bars, to which the recruit’s limbs can be tied, as required. The room is lined with shelves, containing the equipment I’ll use, and I check each and every single item to ensure it is clean and in perfect working order. I open the cellophane around a new whip – this one is Fox’s inaugural whip, the first, but not, I’m sure, the last that will be saved for use only on him.  
  
The room is warm – I like to work in comfort, and sensory deprivation can be applied later, when the recruit is left alone. The lighting is low – although it’s likely that I’ll keep Agent Mulder blindfolded for some time; he is, after all, a man who likes to control events around him, to initiate, and act, rather than remain passive. Losing the most basic of his senses, his sight, will disorientate him. Charles has supplied me with a dossier ten inches thick on dear Agent Mulder, but I’ve declined to read it thus far. I already know the outlines of his story and the rest I’d prefer to learn from him. I don’t want any preconceived notions getting in the way of the fundamentals of my work: reading body language, and listening to the timbre of the voice. If he lies, I’ll know because I’m good at my craft, not because I’ve read the truth in a file. Besides, I want to hear his perceptions of his own life and personality, not those of the various Syndicate operatives who have compiled the file. The truth lies inside Agent Mulder, not in a stack of papers. I pause, and glance at the huge mirror hanging opposite the table, catching sight of myself. I’m surprised by the brightness in my eyes, and the slight flush of my cheeks. I am really enjoying myself far too much. The mirror serves a dual purpose; it allows the new recruit to see himself under torture, if I wish him to witness that, and I frequently do, but it is also an observation window through which the new recruit can be observed from the room next door. Obviously recruits are monitored at all times, and sometimes it is useful to watch their behavior when they think they’re alone – in fact it can be most illuminating.  
  
Finally satisfied with the room, I return to the salon to compose myself. I feel like an actor preparing to go onstage and give the performance of my career, and a shiver akin to stage fright snakes along my spine. This is my big moment, when the spotlight will shine upon me, and I’ll perform my greatest service to the Syndicate. I can almost hear the swell of the orchestra, but I will take no satisfaction from praise or the crescendo of applause. My pleasure will be in the event itself, not the glory I might achieve from it. I endure the longest few minutes of my life as I wait for the bell to ring, and when it finally does, my heart gives a little leap of nervous anticipation, but then experience takes over, and I get slowly and calmly to my feet, and prepare to walk onstage.  
  
The Delivery Room is in the basement – fully soundproofed, and accessible only to the highest members of my staff. I walk down the carpeted hallways, and then onto the stone floors of the basement itself, and into the Observation Room. I sit in the large, comfortable armchair, and press a bell to inform my staff that I’m ready to proceed. A few seconds later the doors to the Delivery Room open, and three men enter, carrying the unconscious weight of my new recruit. They place him on the table, and gaze at the mirror questioningly.  
  
"Do you want us to tie him, sir?" One of my assistants asks. I press a button and speak into the microphone in front of me in order to reply.  
  
"When was he anaesthetized?" I ask, and the reply comes back that it was less than three hours ago. He has subsequently been injected with another drug that will keep him unconscious for two more hours, so I have plenty of time. I therefore reject their offers of help, and dismiss them.  
  
This is the time I like best – the time when I have my first few moments alone with a new recruit, to examine him or her, and get to know them a little. I watch Mulder for several seconds, just savoring the fact that he is here, in my clutches, and imagining the joy that lies ahead, for both of us. It’s too dark in the Delivery Room to see as much of him as I’d like, and he does have to be prepared for awakening, so the time has come to touch, and taste, and smell. I open the door between the two rooms, and step into his presence. I can hear his breathing, and observe the soft rise and fall of his chest, and then approach to examine him more closely.  
  
So this is Agent Mulder. I reach out a finger, and touch his face, then gently push a strand of hair away from his forehead. If I didn’t know he was in his late thirties I would have imagined he was much younger. He has a peculiarly beguiling innocence about him in repose – he reminds me of Charles’s assistant in that. That illusion was dispelled the moment Charles’s boy opened his eyes though. I wonder if it will be the same with this young man, or whether he retains that youthful innocence when he is awake. He isn’t beautiful – or at least it isn’t a definable beauty, but he does have the most powerfully arresting face I’ve ever encountered in my career, and that makes me even more excited. His nose is a little too long, and his lower lip is quite pronounced, giving him an almost feminine appearance. I like that about him; the faint aura of sexual ambiguity is fascinating. He’s tall – long limbed, and slender. I’ll be able to assess his body better when I’ve undressed him. He’s still dressed in a crumpled work suit with a ketchup stain on his shirt. I do so hate untidiness. It almost offends me. His dark hair is thick, and very attractive – I run my fingers through it, and caress it for several minutes. There is something almost…familiar about him. Maybe it was simply our destiny to meet in this way, and become known to each other. I wonder whether I’ll be able to bear to part with him when the time comes, or whether he’ll bore me eventually, as all the others have done.  
  
His skin is very soft – unusually so - pale and, I’m sure, very sensitive to the touch, which does not bode well for him. I stroke his cheeks for a while, and then pick up his hands and examine them, kissing his long, expressive fingers. I spend a moment sucking each one, and he tastes delicious; salty but with an earthy, sensuous scent that arouses me even more. This exotic creature shouldn’t be an FBI agent; he should be an artist’s model, or a permanent concubine to some rich patron. I already feel close to this dear, sleeping boy. I can hardly wait to begin, but experience has taught me not to rush, to take each moment slowly, and savor it. I remove his shoes and socks first. Expensive shoes, but very worn, molded by constant use to fit his feet, and be comfortable. His socks surprise me by being mismatched. It’s a small detail – and the differences in shades of navy blue are so slight that a less experienced eye would have missed them. I suspect he has more important things going on in his mind than his socks, although his general appearance shows a good level of self-esteem. He’s well groomed, and possibly even a little vain – he’s certainly impeccably presented apart from the socks. I like that. His suit is expensive, and well tailored, the wool soft beneath my fingertips.  
  
You can tell a lot about a man by the way he expresses himself in his choice of tie – and what interesting clues Mulder’s tie gives us! It’s sludge green, and most unprepossessing, verging on the ugly. It isn’t a novelty tie, or patterned with imaginative swirls. It’s what I would call a red herring tie; carefully designed to throw the casual observer off the scent. It’s not only asking people not to look too closely at him, it’s consciously trying to repel their interest. He is a man of secrets. How delicious it will be finding out just what those secrets are.  
  
I undo the tie, and curl it neatly around my fingers, before dropping it into the plastic bag in which I will store his belongings. He’ll need them again one day, but not for many weeks. I move my fingers down to his belt and remove that as well. It's a simple belt, plain, and dark, and most interesting in its almost careful lack of decoration. I curl that into a ball and put it next to his tie in the bag. Then I remove his watch. He won’t need to know the time while he’s here. On the contrary - I don’t want him to know. Time will lose all meaning for him in here. Everything will lose meaning for him except me. I’ll be his only reality from now on.  
  
I remove his jacket with more difficulty. He’s a considerable weight but I’ve had a lot of experience of undressing the comatose, so he’s no problem really. I doubt he’ll be this co-operative when he wakes up though! The jacket is neatly folded and placed in the plastic bag with his other belongings. After his jacket comes his shirt, each button slowly, and lovingly undone, until finally it falls loose over his slim frame. I push it aside with eager nudges of my fingers, longing to view his chest and torso. He’s very pleasing; wide shoulders, and beautiful pink-brown nipples. I bend my head and suck each one very gently and carefully into little points, and of course he doesn’t stir. Again that delicious flavor, that scent and taste that is the essential essence of Mulder. It almost makes my head swim. I run the back of my hand over his almost hairless chest, feeling the softness, and warmth of his body. Finally I remove the shirt altogether, and survey him again. He has a runner’s body – or maybe a swimmer's. Perhaps both. He’s built for speed, rather than stamina, which will have an effect on the strategies I use for breaking him, as well as for the possibilities of what kind of pain he can best endure. His pectorals are nicely developed – I suspect he works out in a gym the way young people do these days. I’m indifferent to the appeal of muscles per se, but his are pleasingly toned – nothing more. Finally I undo his pants, and strip them swiftly from his body, folding and storing them with his other clothing. He is wearing soft, pale gray cotton shorts underneath, which cling in folds to his body, a cross between briefs and boxers, nicely molding his flesh. Comfort is clearly important to him. I remove the shorts as efficiently as I have stripped him of the rest of his clothes, and then inspect his genitalia. He’s nicely hung – as with his upper body he is neither grotesquely over-endowed, nor disappointingly small. His cock has a smoothness that appeals to me. It really does have a very attractive shape and circumference. His pubic hair is dark, and curls around a set of slightly larger ball sacs than I’d anticipated. Frowning, I bend and inspect his testicles more closely, moving aside his cock to gain a better view. Weighing them in my hands, I discover they are definitely heavier than I had expected, and that rather pleases me.  
  
He’s still unconscious, and will be for another hour or so, which gives me plenty of time to make my initial examination. I take a step back, and then circle his body, reaching out a finger to touch here or there, and become more closely acquainted with my beautiful new recruit. Of course the body is not as interesting as the mind, but it’s still the tool by which I gain access to the mind, and his body is most arousing. I can feel my penis harden inside my pants, but my own pleasure will have to wait until he’s awake, and able to appreciate receiving me in his mouth, or ass. Certainly the latter to begin with – it wouldn’t be worth the risk of placing myself in his pretty mouth until I can be sure that he fully appreciates the painful penalties for disobedience, and the need for co-operation. Numerous scars, the worst being on his shoulder, and thigh, blemish his body, and yet, far from repulsing me, they add to my appreciation of him. He has a peculiar grace, even during unconsciousness – ungainly, too long of limb, and yet strangely beautiful at the same time. He’s already fascinating me and he hasn’t even said a word yet.  
  
"So this is the dangerous, willful Agent Fox Mulder," I murmur, caressing his penis in the palm of my hand. It hardens a little in response to the stimulus, which amuses me. Of course he won’t be allowed much pleasure to begin with; I need to keep that for a reward – and also as a psychological tool in order to show him how much he is in my power, and how his body responds to me now, and not to the commands of his own mind. That is why the first thing I do is bind his cock, and confine it in a small metal cage. He won’t be able to become erect, even if he should feel aroused. His pleasure, like his pain, is completely at my command.  
  
It’s time to restrain him in preparation for his waking. I start with his hands, taking each slender wrist, and wrapping it in a comfortable, fleece-lined plastic cuff. Obviously the word 'comfortable' is relative in this instance. The cuff has to be comfortable as he is to be tied in a most uncomfortable position and it won’t be long before he loses sensation in his hands – especially if he struggles. Still the cuffs won’t mark him permanently, which would be a sign of poor handling on my part – very clumsy. When his wrists have been comfortably cuffed, I attach them to the horizontal bar over his chest. They hang loosely, but firmly. He can struggle all he likes but he won’t be able to escape. I turn my attention to his ankles, fastening the plastic cuffs around them, before I reach the fun part. I raise his left leg, and rest it on my shoulder. He weighs a ton, but then I’m not as young as I used to be. I’m sweating and panting before I have his leg fastened where I want it – attached by the cuff to the metal bar above him. I fasten the right leg alongside it, so now the two limbs are spread wide apart, and the most intimate parts of his body are exposed to view. Satisfied, I stand back and survey him again.  
  
He looks beautiful, like a captured animal – maybe his namesake fox - all long limbs, and revealed flesh. His body is flat on the table, and his arms tied above him. His legs are in a 'V' shape, wide open, and tied high above his waist. If he relaxes into the position it won't be too uncomfortable – but struggling causes chafing around the wrists and ankles. Somehow I feel sure he will struggle. They usually do.  
  
It’s time to examine him more intimately. I pull on a latex glove and lubricate my fingers, and then insert one into his rectum. Unconscious, he’s unable to resist, and yet the tightness of his anal opening assures me that he’s a virgin. That’s good. I’ll admit that I like it best if they are, both for physical and psychological reasons. The loss of anal virginity affects men profoundly, and can almost be enough to break some men of and by itself. Physically the first penetration is painful, but psychologically it has an even more profound impact, and I always enjoy it for that reason, even more than the sensation of inflicting pain and distress on my recruits, although I’m fond of that as well. Probing, and the addition of an extra finger, leads me to conclude that he’ll find the process of losing his virginity extremely difficult, but that is of little concern. What is more important is keeping him well lubricated, and taking care to stretch but not cause too much tearing. While I don’t mind inflicting a great deal of pain I wouldn’t want him permanently damaged. I take great pride in ensuring that my trainees are all in perfect condition when they are sent to serve the Elite. We’ll stretch Agent Mulder to make him able to take even the largest of his new masters easily, and without injury. It’s an important part of the training process.  
  
I enjoy probing him for several minutes, stroking his exposed thigh with my free hand while I do so, and then I withdraw, and remove the latex glove, throwing it in the trash. It’s a little stained – he’ll require an enema before his first penetration. With a regretful glance at my watch, I realize that our little 'getting to know each other' time is coming to an end, so I perform my final task before he wakes up – I place a thick, padded blindfold over his eyes. It’s a shame to obscure even a small part of that striking face, and I’m dying to see what he looks like awake, with his eyes open, but the blindfold is necessary I think. I do want his disorientation to be complete when he wakes up.  
  
Finally, I give his pale, long limbed body another caress, stroking him fondly, and watch him as he moans softly. He still isn’t awake, but he’s clearly starting to come around. I retire from the room, regretfully, and return to the Observation Room where I can watch his reactions as he comes to.  
  
*****  
  
  
Mulder opened his eyes…and found that it was still dark. His throat was dry, and his limbs felt heavy. For a moment he assumed he’d fallen asleep on his couch. There was a fog in his head that refused to clear, but it didn’t take him long to realize that something was wrong. Sensation returned to his body in a sudden whoosh, and that was when he became aware that he was tied, and painfully. His arms hurt, and his fingers felt dead. Worse than that, he was naked. He could feel a very slight breeze over his thighs, and knew that he had been stripped, and was being held captive. His first instinct was to struggle – but he fought it. Instead he tried to breathe, and remain calm. He moved his fingers, and then his wrists, to figure out how he was tied, and whether there was any point in fighting the bonds. He soon realized that he was bound far too tightly to make it worth his while making what would only be a token, and exhausting protest. He concentrated on his legs, the blood rushing to his face in horrified humiliation as he realized that they were tied spread open above his body. He tried to close them, but found that impossible. A wave of claustrophobia combined with fear washed over him, and he smelled his own frightened, acrid scent in the air, but still he wouldn’t struggle. He blinked behind the blindfold, and moistened his lips with his tongue. The darkness was pressing in on him, and his mind desperately wanted to panic. Only the strength of his will kept him from giving in to that panic. Somehow he was sure it wouldn’t do him any good. He needed clarity of thought right now. He tried to recall how he had been brought here, searching for clues to his predicament. He remembered the mall, and his car – and something being placed over his face. Even so, he’d be missed. They wouldn’t be able to keep him long. Tomorrow morning at work he’d be missed…Scully would find him. Scully and Skinner. Together they’d find him, all he had to do was stay calm, and co-operate with his captors and they would…his heart sank as another memory came back to him. Nobody was expecting him at work tomorrow. He had a one-week vacation. Nobody would even begin looking for him for a week. A lot could happen in a week. He was acutely aware of his legs being open, his ass exposed to the world, and a low moan escaped from his lips. He wondered for the first time if he was being watched, if his captors were nearby. If so, they hadn’t spoken, and were keeping very quiet. He took a deep breath, and then tried to remain as silent as possible, listening for the sound of another person’s breathing. Nothing. There was no sound at all. He was alone. He let out his breath and concentrated on trying to rub his blindfold against his arm, to loosen it a fraction, but soon found it an impossible task. Exhausted by even that small contortion, he banged his head back on the surface he was lying on, and tried to regroup.  
  
The silence covered him like a shroud. He could be dead. He might be dead very soon. He had read enough reports of criminally insane behavior to know that he could very well be the victim of a serial killer. Certainly the way he had been tied seemed to suggest that his captor had a sexual motive so it was unlikely that he was being held by one of his enemies. Mulder lay very still, fighting the sheer terror that threatened to overwhelm and paralyze him. This was the worst, the not knowing…at least if he knew… He became used to the sound of his own breathing, and the steady thump of his frightened heart, beating too fast. He could feel goose bumps rising on his flesh – he was a little cold, but he suspected that was more from shock than anything else because the room was pleasantly warm. After a while he decided that he had played this game for long enough – the darkness was pressing in on him, almost hurting him with its intensity, and he needed some relief. He opened his mouth, tentatively, and licked his lips again.  
  
"Why did you bring me here?" he croaked, his throat too dry to form the words properly. He swallowed hard and tried again. "Release me," he demanded. Nothing. Silence for a long time. "What do you want from me?" He tried again but there was still no response. Dispirited, he allowed his head to slump back once again, and tried to remember to breathe as deeply as possible. His continued captivity was starting to make his wrists and ankles ache. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could tolerate being in this position. A thought occurred to him. Supposing nobody came? Supposing he was left here to die? Slowly. Terrifyingly. Surely. Dying in his own excrement and urine…Urine. His cock ached…and he struggled to comprehend why. He couldn’t make sense of what had been done to his cock – it hurt, just a little, and it didn’t feel right. There was something touching it – no, something around it. Damn but if he wasn’t wearing this blindfold…another wave of sweat broke out on his skin as he considered the full horror of not even knowing what had been done to his own body. Not even being able to see what had been done.  
  
The silence now had an oppressive weight of its own. Mulder gulped for air, but still refused to give in to pointless struggle. He dangled…and waited. His overactive mind processed the information it had access to, and he tried, desperately, to form some kind of hypothesis for what was happening to him. He needed a reason why. It didn’t make sense to him that somebody would tie him in this position and not stay close to see his reaction on waking. Only a sexual sadist would tie somebody like this, and such a person would want to spend time with their victim…maybe they already had. Mulder bit down hard on his lip as he considered how he must have been stripped, and tied…maybe he had already been violated in some way…and yet…most deviants liked to observe their victims, and relish their discomfort, and he could imagine the first moments of waking would be particularly arousing to the kind of sick bastard who would think of tying him like this in the first place.  
  
"Have you watched for long enough?" He asked, in a normal, everyday voice, not allowing his fear to be evident in his tones. "You have me tied up, and at your mercy. You’ve seen my initial reaction. I’m awake and I know you’re looking at me."  
  
More silence. He closed his eyes, and tried to compose himself. Sleep was impossible, but intellectually he knew that he had no choice but to surrender himself to this experience. There was no way out. There was no point in fruitless struggle. He had to accept, for now at least, that he was at someone else’s mercy, and that his future was not in his own control. He had to accept that, and remain vigilant, waiting for a hint of weakness, or a chance of escape. He concentrated on his breathing again, dozens of images running through his mind. He could see Scully, smiling at him from the doorway of his office, and Skinner, standing in the cold directing an operation, holding a cell phone to his ear, a distracted look on his face, his warm breath steaming the air. They would find him. They would save him. He would be rescued. They were the only two people in the world that he trusted…and they had sent him on vacation. They had sent him to this…  
  
"No!" He took a deep breath and for the first time struggled against the cuffs that were keeping him bound. A wave of panic overtook him, and he writhed helplessly, his wrists and ankles chafing against their bonds.  
  
"Agent Mulder." A voice beside him made him jump, but there was nobody there. He knew there was nobody there! He could sense no body heat, could hear no breathing, and there had been no sound of footsteps. Damn this blindfold! "Agent Mulder, please calm down. You’ve shown admirable restraint so far. Struggling is pointless."  
  
"Then untie me," he replied quickly. He heard a wry chuckle in his ear, but he could swear there was nobody there. He moved his head, trying to sense another body nearby.  
  
"You don’t give the orders here, Agent Mulder. On the contrary, you obey them."  
  
"You haven’t given me any orders. I’ll do whatever you want, just untie me," he replied.  
  
"Not yet."  
  
"What do you want from me?" He asked. "Why did you abduct me like this? I’ll be missed…" His voice hitched as he said that, none too sure that it was true.  
  
"Will you?" That calm, detached voice questioned.  
  
"I’ll be missed when I don’t show up at work," Mulder argued.  
  
"You're on vacation. You withdrew a sum of money from an ATM earlier this afternoon. You have a history of running off without leaving notes or even informing your partner of your whereabouts. Why should you be missed? They won’t even begin looking for you for a week."  
  
The word 'begin' chilled Mulder to his soul, and another wave of terrified sweat broke out on his naked body. It was true. He had to endure a week before anybody would even know he was missing. And a week of what?  
  
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice croaking in his dry throat.  
  
"Ah, it would be easier if I wanted something tangible, like information, wouldn’t it?" That maddeningly calm voice chuckled. "I’m afraid I don’t want information, Agent Mulder. What I want is you."  
  
"You’ve already got me," Mulder pointed out, clanging the metal rings of his cuffs against the bar above him.  
  
"Physically, yes. I want what’s inside you, Agent Mulder. You’ve been causing the people I work for some…consternation."  
  
"And who would that be?" Mulder asked, craning his neck, longing to be able to see.  
  
"You know the answer to that already. Suffice it to say that they’ve had enough. They don’t want to kill you, Agent Mulder. You’re too valuable, and they have no objection to you continuing to do your work – under our guidance of course. You’ve been allowed to run wild for too long. They’re bringing you in from the cold."  
"I don’t know what the fuck you mean," Mulder retorted angrily.  
  
"Yes you do. You are our creature, Agent Mulder. You belong to us. We’re just bringing you in for an attitude adjustment. I’m going to explain a little of what will happen to you, so you can understand what’s expected of you while you’re my guest."  
  
"Guest?" Mulder inquired ironically.  
  
"You don’t like the accommodation?" The voice sounded peeved. "Oh dear. It can be changed – but first we have to see a real commitment from you."  
  
"Go to hell." It was a mindless, pointless protest. He knew that. It didn’t even make him feel better but he had to say it.  
  
"Ah. Well, that’s not quite the commitment I had in mind," the voice chuckled. "All right, Agent Mulder, let me explain things to you. I don’t want anything from you – nothing you can say, or do, will stop your pain, or what will be done to you. There are no magic words, no answers. What is happening is out of your control. You’ll beg, and you’ll even volunteer information that you think will help your case. You’ll plead, and you’ll cry. You’ll appeal to my better nature but you can save yourself the trouble; I have none. There is no easy way out of your current predicament, but there is light at the end of the tunnel. When I’m through with you, then you’ll be released – and you’ll be a much happier man. All the uncertainties will be gone, taken away from you. You’ll be ours from then on. You see, Agent Mulder…"  
  
He heard a door open, and the man’s voice moved from beside his ear to the other side of the room. It was disorienting. He lifted his head in the direction of the soft footsteps.  
  
"We have only your best interests at heart," the voice said, coming close now. Mulder knew that his tormentor was standing right beside him.  
  
"That must be why you’ve got me trussed up like a fucking chicken," he commented.  
  
"That’s right. Nobody said the path to happiness was easy," his captor chuckled. "There is only one significant thing that will happen here in the next few weeks, Agent Mulder, and that is that I will break you."  
  
It was said so simply, and it caused a chill to run up Mulder’s spine, and another wave of desperate sweat to break out on his naked flesh.  
  
"Ah. Goosebumps."  
  
Mulder let out a surprised shout as he felt a finger on his arm, running the length of it from shoulder to wrist.  
  
"I can see that last statement had an impact, Agent Mulder."  
  
"I’m sure that was your intention, wasn’t it?" Mulder growled back.  
  
"No, it was simply a statement of fact. I’ve broken dozens of young men and women, Agent Mulder, and you’ll be no different. You’ll come to love me eventually. They all do. Oh, they're scared of me of course, but they love me as well. You’ll love me."  
  
"I don’t think that’s fucking likely," Mulder spat. "Ow!" He gave a cry of pain as something lashed down on his unprotected thigh.  
  
"This is your whip, Agent Mulder. It’s yours and yours alone. I’ll use it whenever I feel like it, but there are ways you can avoid it. Swearing or cussing at me is guaranteed to make me a little irritated, so you might like to keep that in mind."  
  
"I don’t fucking care what irritates you," Mulder ground out, and flinched immediately, waiting for the next blow.  
  
"You should," that voice purred in his ear. A second later the whip cracked in the air again, and striped him across his chest. He gave a hoarse shout of sheer pained outrage. "Let me explain," his captor said patiently. "The people I work for are great men and women. They have sacrificed themselves, and their happiness, for the rest of us. It is only right, and fair, that they receive something in return. They do lonely work – and need some respite, and the comfort of willing bodies." There was silence for a moment.  
  
"You mean you run a whorehouse," Mulder observed. He didn’t expect the lash and when the whip descended again, this time across his upper thighs, he gasped for breath, sobbing in pain.  
  
"Not a whorehouse, no. I help train boys and girls to take their place in our Syndicate. I have broken each and every one of them, and when I’m done they are much more fulfilled than they were before. They would've led empty, pointless lives without me. I liberated them, Agent Mulder, as I will liberate you."  
  
"By turning me into some kind of prostitute?" Mulder laughed. It was absurd. "Look, in case you don’t know, I’m crap in the sack. I don’t have lovers. The last time I went to bed with someone she was after my blood, not my cock. I’m a lousy lay."  
  
"That’s because nobody has unlocked your potential," the voice purred in his ear, and Mulder felt a wave of nausea in the pit of his stomach.  
  
"I have trouble getting it up," Mulder admitted frankly. "I’ll be useless for what you have in mind."  
  
"When I’ve finished with you you’ll become erect on order – not that it would matter if you weren’t. Your ass will be in great demand among the Elite, and I’ll make sure they all get to try our latest recruit," his captor said in a tone of vicious glee. Mulder shivered.  
  
"Don’t…" he whispered.  
  
"You’re afraid."  
  
"Yes. I’m sane. Any sane person would be afraid," Mulder replied, craning his head in the direction of his captor.  
  
"Well, you do have to endure a good deal before you come to love your captivity," his tormentor said, "so your fear is justified. Don’t worry though, I’ll be here when you break."  
  
"That’s so comforting," Mulder murmured, his whole body convulsing with the need to break free, and escape from this madness.  
  
"Hush." A finger ran down his body, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake. "Hush, hush, hush." Cool fingers caressed his skin, and he tried to twist away, revolted by the caress. "You’re a very intriguing man, Agent Mulder. It will be a pleasure to break you."  
  
"Oh, the pleasure will be all yours, I assure you," Mulder snapped.  
  
"I’m sure you’re expecting some rules, and strictures. There aren’t any. You will simply take what I give until you break, and then we’ll see about releasing you," his captor told him. He felt fingers on his ass, and then they were penetrating him.  
  
"Shit, NO!" He cried, writhing in his bonds.  
  
"Hush, hush…" He was soothed, as if he were a child. "It’s merely preparation, Agent Mulder. I’m not going to penetrate you just yet – I’m saving that for later."  
  
"You fucking bastard!" he screamed at the top of his voice, and the next thing he knew the whip had sliced across his chest, biting deep.  
  
"Be quiet. Here." A cup was placed against his lips and he drank deeply, thankfully, eager to ease his sore, dry throat, but the next thing he knew he was spinning dizzily into the darkness and he knew he’d been drugged.  
  
He awoke on his front. His arms had been pulled out sideways, and were tied firmly. His legs were still spread but not by the bar this time, by something else, and by tighter bonds. He was completely immobile.  
  
"First of all punishment for disobedience, then the enema in preparation for our first moment of intimacy," a voice said in his ear. He tried to struggle again but he was bound too tightly. He felt the whip rest against his ass, and then it was lifted and brought down to imprint its fiery kiss deep into the flesh on his butt. He gave a hoarse scream, but the whip rose and fell inexorably, and his tormentor took no notice of his cries. Finally, exhausted and dripping sweat, he rested his head on the table, and bit down hard into the vinyl surface. The whipping continued, but he barely felt it. His mind was humming too much with pain. When it finished, he didn’t notice at first, but then he became aware of something hard pressing into his ass. He clenched his buttocks tightly together, and then roared out loud as his captor slapped his ravaged flesh. The enema bulb was pushed deep inside, and he felt warm water flood into his bowels. He had an urge to squat, and expel the fluid. The table was lifted, and he found himself in an upright position. He felt his butt being held against a bowl and he screamed, and tried to fight, but his body was his own enemy, and soon he was defecating into the bowl, all the time screeching his defiance. The process was repeated, and his arms hurt too much in their bonds to struggle. He hung, limply, and allowed it to happen, and then suffered the indignity of being hosed down, as if he were some kind of dog. Finally the table was returned to a horizontal position, and he was dried with a rough towel. He closed his eyes, fighting the humiliation of what was being done…what was about to be done to him, without his consent, against his will.  
  
"All right, you’re clean. Now, I want you to relax, and enjoy what I have planned for you," his captor said and Mulder laughed out loud, a bitter, outraged laugh.  
  
"Enjoy…? You’re going to fucking rape me," he growled.  
  
"Oh no. You and I are going to enjoy a special moment together. I hope you remember this moment as much as I will. I always enjoy the first coupling – it’s the moment when I first get to know my new recruit, to fully experience and taste him or her with complete intimacy. I like the way that feels, and I like the knowledge that they are subdued to my touch, and mastery. It’s a beautiful moment." The voice sounded almost dreamy. Mulder shuddered. He felt something slippery enter his ass, and guessed it was his captor’s finger, probing him. He clenched his muscles around the intruder, and then cried out as his sore ass was slapped once again. "It’s going to happen whether you resist or not," the voice said in his ear.  
  
"Fuck you," he spat.  
  
"No, Agent Mulder. It’s you who is going to be fucked," his captor laughed. "This is a special table – cut away in the center, your legs tied to each separate surface, so I can walk between your outstretched thighs, and have access to your anus. See." He could feel the wool of the other man’s pants on the tender flesh of his open thighs and felt sick as he realized his captor was standing between his legs. "All right, time to begin. Hold still." He could do nothing else, as he felt warm, wet lips on his sore ass, licking, and kissing him. A cold sweat broke out on his back. "Hush."  
  
The playing went on for what seemed like hours. Little kisses, and nibbling bites, like a lover, but in a twisted parody of any kind of love.  
  
"Beautiful…you’re lovely. I like the way you taste," the other man said. "I might have to taste you more often. A little bite here or there…" he sank his teeth into Mulder’s back and the agent screamed. "Good boy. Let it all out. I’m sure you have a lot to scream about. I’m sure you’ve led a difficult life. We can change that now. Hush…let us become one, and then you can scream some more as you come to understand your new duties. It’s cathartic. Give in to it," the voice soothed, and cajoled, and Mulder ground his face into the surface of the vinyl table, tears running down his cheeks. He heard the sound of a zipper being undone, and then a sigh of pleasure. "Ah, if you could see how hard you’ve made me, Agent Mulder. I knew you would make me hard, but it’s been a while since I’ve been so aroused by a new recruit. I’m very erect, very eager to enter you, and make you mine. Hush."  
  
He trembled as hands gently pulled his buttocks apart, and he clenched his rectal muscles tightly closed. Nothing happened. He could feel something hard stroking against his inner thigh and bile rose in his throat as he realized it was the other man’s cock. He screamed again, choking on his own vomit, but nothing was happening. His buttocks were being held open, and the other man was just talking to him. Little words - meaningless, soothing. "All right. I’m going to take my time. We’ll wait a moment. I want you to be calmer before I join us together. I want you to fully appreciate the moment. Psychologically speaking it’s very important. If there’s anything you want to say to me while we’re connected then I’ll give it my best attention. Be as vocal as you like – nobody will hear you scream except me."  
  
Mulder slumped, exhausted again, every muscle in his body aching. He felt detached, dislocated from time and his own body. This couldn’t really be happening to him. He didn’t believe it was happening. Then there was movement behind him and he flinched, and clenched his ass again.  
  
"It’s okay. I’m just going to lubricate myself. I want to glide in easily. This feels good…" He heard the sound of a hand slapping against flesh, and sliding back and forth. "Of course if you resist me then it’ll be harder on you – I do quite enjoy a fight, but you’re tied too tightly to be able to prevent me gaining access to the very depths of your body. I want to discover the treasure that lies there, deep within. I want to find out what part of you resides there."  
  
"It’s my fucking ass," Mulder snapped. "Not a fucking oracle."  
  
"It’s a beautiful ass. Very red. You have a number of welts – and there will be some bruising in the morning," his tormentor told him. "All right, time for our first milestone. Hold still, Agent Mulder while I enter you."  
  
He cried out loud as his buttocks were pulled apart again, and then he felt something hard nudging the entrance of his rectum. He fought it. He fought with all his might, clenching his muscles, and struggling in his bonds for as long as he could, but he failed, just as they had both always known he would. His captor had time. Languidly, he waited for Mulder’s struggles to subside, and when eventually they did, when Mulder put his head down, the sweat liberally dripping from his skin, his captor calmly parted his buttocks again, snubbed his cock into the entrance and pushed. Mulder yelled as that hard cock entered his body. He yelled over and over again but his tormentor didn’t seem to care. The other man paused at regular intervals, until Mulder’s screams had subsided, and then pushed himself in further, just a fraction, going ever so slowly. That first penetration seemed to take forever. Mulder thought he was going to die from the pain as that cock slid inch by inexorable inch into his body until he was sure it could go no further.  
  
"Please stop! Please…take it out…please…" he writhed, crying hoarsely.  
  
"Nonsense. It’s exactly where I want it to be," the other man said, patting Mulder’s ass. "A little further. You can take more, can’t you?"  
  
It didn’t matter that he screamed that he couldn’t, that he begged for that hard cock to be removed from his ass, the other man continued sliding it into his body until he was stretched so wide, and impaled so deeply, that he wasn’t sure he could breathe.  
  
"Ah, this is good. You feel so good, Agent Mulder. I could stay here forever," his tormentor purred. "Hold still. That’s good. Let me adjust…"  
  
Mulder gave a shrill shriek as his captor shifted position, his hips gyrating to gain better purchase, and thrust in a little way further.  
  
"Delicious. Very warm. Very tight. In fact you are excessively tight, Agent Mulder. I’m sure there will be a little bleeding but that’s to be expected. Hold on." A movement of hips backwards, the lessening of that deep, lancing pain, and then it returned, three times as bad, as his torturer thrust his hips forwards. Mulder screamed with each thrust thereafter, until his throat became so dry that no sound came out, only a silent whisper of distress. "I like the first intimacy to take a long time," the man behind him was saying. Mulder blinked into his blindfold.  
  
"It would be easy to come too soon with you. Very easy. You’re so beautiful, trembling and defiant beneath me. However, I know it’s important for you, mentally, to understand the full importance of what I’m doing to you. I know you need this to last for a considerable amount of time in order to appreciate your position. For your sake I’ll hold on for as long as possible, to increase the sensations, and prolong your current discomfort. Please scream all you like. You’ve gone very silent."  
  
Mulder tried to wet his dry lips to reply, but found he had nothing left to moisten them with. He put his head on the table with a throaty moan. The other man was lodged deep inside him. He could feel the pulse of his captor's cock within his ravaged rectum. The other man pounded into him, ruthlessly, over and over again for what seemed like hours, and then, just as he appeared to be reaching a climax, stopped, buried deep in Mulder’s ass, and waited until his climax had receded before starting again. In other circumstances Mulder would have been impressed by his captor’s self control. During these pauses the other man would fawn over him, which he found almost as sickening as the rasping pain of the thrusts. He was shaking uncontrollably, his muscles exhausted by struggling.  
  
"There, this is good. I’m enjoying this. I’m so delighted that you’ve chosen to share your virginity with me, and given me the honor of being the first man you allow into this delicious ass. You have a spectacular body, Agent Mulder. I like the way your muscles move under the skin – very beautiful. And your ass is tight – one of the tightest I’ve encountered, and that feels very good I have to say. We’ll work on you so that you’re more open. What I’ll do, in time, is arrange for you to be visited by a succession of the larger endowed of our clients. I know they’ll appreciate your tightness as I do, but we must make you more welcoming and accepting of your betters. They will wish to use you frequently, I’m sure, knowing your history, and novelty value, to say nothing of your beauty. When you’re trained you’ll just open up for anyone who wants you, but until that time we’ll have to work on you. We need to make this path a little more accessible and easier to travel for even the most casual of visitors, hmm?"  
  
Mulder could smell his own pain it was so tangible. He bit down onto the vinyl of the table again, weeping softly, the tears running down his cheeks.  
  
"It’s not unusual for a new recruit to cry. Please don’t hold back on my account. I enjoy the sound," his tormentor said, sliding back and forth, rocking into Mulder’s body. "Do you understand a little of the bond we’re building here, Agent Mulder?" he was asked, as his captor paused for breath again, his hard cock deeply embedded in Mulder’s body.  
  
No, Mulder wept silently, but it wasn’t true. He was tied face down on a table while another man brutally raped him, and he could do nothing to prevent it. He knew what was being done, and he knew exactly what kind of twisted bond was being built here.  
  
"What’s happening is that you’re beginning to understand what is required of you. It’s a slow process, but you’re an intelligent man. You’ll become used to feeling me inside you – I’ll be penetrating you frequently, and when I am not in the mood one of my men will take my place. You do need to get used to a variety of people touching you, and entering you, Agent Mulder. I am one of many who will enjoy this tight little hole. You’ll learn to accept it, in time. Eventually you’ll welcome it – when I’ve broken you. And I will break you. You do know that, don’t you?"  
  
It was asked almost conversationally, and Mulder stared into a dark abyss.  
  
"No," he replied in a shaky whisper, because he had to, but he feared that might not be the truth. He didn’t know the limits of his own strength, and he didn’t know whether he could withstand the daily diet of torture and rape being outlined to him.  
  
"Yes," his captor said firmly, illustrating the point by a series of vicious thrusts that made Mulder gasp out loud, his fingers opening and closing uselessly as if trying to form a fist to fight with. "At first I find my new recruits very exciting, and can hardly keep my hands off them, so you can expect me to enter you frequently, almost casually for the next few days, maybe even weeks. I do like the intimacy of being part of my new recruit’s body. I like the moments we have alone together, moments of sharing, and deepening our bond. There now, hush. I’ve said you can cry. Cry, Agent Mulder." And he did. He convulsed against the table, the tears falling onto the vinyl surface of the table, and washing salt water over his dried, cracked lips. "There, my dear boy. What a lifetime of sorrow you must have in those tears. Cry it all out. Cry it out."  
  
Mulder gave into the wave of desolation as his captor slowly ground himself into his body over and over again, stroking him as he did so, speaking to him, and comforting him, inflicting the pain and offering platitudes against it at one and the same time. The other man seemed almost excited by Mulder’s tears, and his thrusts grew more urgent until he came, with an energetic grunt of satisfaction. Mulder felt warm semen, or maybe blood, dripping down his thighs, and cried deep into the smooth surface of the table. His captor seemed in no hurry to withdraw, and kept his limp cock embedded inside his prone victim as he leaned over Mulder, licking the sweat from his naked back, and continued stroking his ass and thighs with cool hands.  
  
Mulder cried out as the other man finally withdrew. He felt more warm liquid trickling down his thighs. For all he knew he’d wet himself. He didn’t know what was happening to his own body. He didn’t even know the face of the man who had just savagely stripped him of his dignity and humanity so completely. He lay exhausted on the table, and didn’t even move when his ass was opened again, but he cried out as a cool, lubricated finger was pushed into his sore rectum.  
  
"Hush, my dear boy." His bottom received a pat, and then a suppository was pushed into him, and he felt it melt inside his rectum. "That will help fight any infections. I would give you something for the pain but I really need you to experience your discomfort to its fullest extent right now. Later on I might be more merciful, but you’ll have to earn pain relief, like everything else. I’m going to leave you to get some rest now. I’ll turn the temperature up a little as you’re shivering – you won’t be allowed any material to cover you for now. We must keep this beautiful body on display at all times. It would be a crime to hide it from view."  
  
Another pat on his ass, and then he felt lips on the side of his face but he was too exhausted and traumatized to move away from the lingering kiss. He accepted the vile caress, but it was only when he heard footsteps moving away, the opening of a door, and soft closing of it, that he gave in, finally, to the full depths of his misery. He lay in a silent, choking spasm of distress that was as wordless as it was deep. He choked up his own soul, and found, in the darkness, no solace.  
  
*****  
  
That all went very well. I love his reactions! The way my new recruits react on first waking tells me such a lot about them, and his veneer of calm, his attempts to stay quiet, to think his predicament through…all speak of a strong will, and a personality that refuses to surrender to the obvious. He is truly beautiful, mind and body. When he did finally struggle, it was with the will and desperation of a man with too much imagination, or maybe knowledge, garnered from his years in the Bureau. He knew what would very likely happen to him and his fear was real, tangible, but never enough to overwhelm that multi-faceted mind of his. I can’t tell you how refreshing I find him. Most of my new recruits have struggled and screamed their heads off upon waking to find themselves naked, and tied, in the Delivery Room. Few have just waited, or attempted conversation with me. He’s going to be such a delight! Honestly, if I were a cartoon character I’d be rubbing my hands together in gleeful anticipation right now. I so long to find out more about him! A less patient man, or one with less experience, would go straight back in there to continue, but that would be a mistake. He needs this time of quiet reflection, to come to terms with what has been so brutally and easily done to him. That, I think, will be what eats at him – how easily the veneer of dignity and liberty can be stripped from a man. With that realization will come the knowledge of how hard an adversary I will be. I took something precious from him without hesitation, or compassion for his suffering. That will prey on his mind. He’ll consider engaging me in conversation, attempting to understand me, in a kind of reverse manifestation of Stockholm Syndrome, but of course it won’t work. I’m too old and too wily for that, Agent Mulder.  
  
I return to my salon to see to business. Normally I’d take a shower, but you know, I don’t want to wash the delicious scent of him from my body. Instead, I sit at my desk and replay that exciting scene over and over again in my mind. It really couldn’t have gone any better. His rebellion, his ability to answer back, even under duress, the sharpness of his mind, combined with the abject surrender of his body to my will…all excite me. The way he said the pleasure would be all mine, his frank admission of his own impotence…I find that intriguing. Many men would die rather than admit their own sexual inadequacy. He fascinates me. What, I wonder, is at the root of his inability to take sexual pleasure? In fact, what is his sexual orientation? Until I saw him, I just assumed he was another heterosexual G-Man, clumsy and clueless, in need of considerable tuition to make him pleasing to my clients, male and female. What I found was a very different class of recruit. Someone locked inside a body that refuses to respond to stimuli, someone sexually blocked. I’ll enjoy unblocking him. What am I to make of his strange sexual ambiguity as well? He was certainly a virgin and clearly hasn’t lead a vigorous homosexual lifestyle, and yet… I’m getting ahead of myself, but I can’t help it. Imagine his horror, and the profound implications on his psyche, when he discovers that I can bring him to an orgasm that he cannot achieve by himself – when he finally realizes that in this place not even his own body is his to command. Delicious. I was right to eschew the files; unpeeling him layer by layer will be so much more exciting.  
  
A few hours are all he needs to recover and ponder. I return to the Delivery Room around the early hours of the morning when all the clients have been safely dispatched to rooms with their respective trainees. Fox – such an appropriate name – is lying still on the table. His limbs are long, and white in the dimly lit room, and he’s quiet. He isn’t sobbing, or in any obvious distress. I would have been called if he was – I keep my new recruits under observation at all times. Instead he is just lying where he was left, a little pool of semen mingled with blood smearing his ass and thighs. He isn’t sleeping though. He tenses when I come in, and lifts his head.  
  
"Ah, you’re awake, Agent Mulder."  
  
"Did you seriously expect me to sleep?" He asks, still defiant.  
  
"It would have been wise. You should sleep whenever you can – we do intend to put you to fairly vigorous use during your breaking, so you’ll need to recoup your physical energy whenever the opportunity presents itself."  
  
"Why are you doing this?" His voice carries such abject despair that it’s heart-warming. I go to his head, gently stroke his hair, and am rewarded when he flinches. I merely continue fondling him, almost feeling the heat of his revulsion through his skin.  
  
"I’m doing this because you need to be taken away from yourself, to start again, with a clean slate. I can give you that clean slate, Fox."  
  
He stiffens at my use of his first name. "You don’t like your name? Or you don’t like me using it?" I ask him.  
  
"Both," he says in a low, tense tone.  
  
"Well I could call you something else – would that help? Agent Mulder is too formal for lovers, I think."  
  
"What?" He chokes.  
  
"Lovers," I purr, pressing my lips to the side of his face, and trailing them down the tear streaked skin. "That’s what we became earlier this evening. Our bodies were joined together."  
  
"That was rape," he states flatly.  
  
"No, my darling, it was a beautiful, delicious intimacy - the first of many - and there was an almost spiritual intensity to it," I murmur. I wet my index finger and thumb, reach under his chest, and gently pinch a nipple between them. "Surely you felt it too?"  
  
"No, I fucking didn’t," he chokes, and I squeeze tight, causing him to tense in his bonds, a cry struggling for release from between his lips.  
  
"We still haven’t resolved the problem of your name." I take the whip down from above the table and stroke his exposed body thoughtfully, raising goose bumps in the wake of my caress. "Did you have a nickname as a child?"  
  
"I don’t fucking remember," he snaps, and my whip cracks down almost immediately over his exposed back. He sobs, gasping for breath. "I don’t remember," he repeats, in a soft, strangulated whisper.  
  
"I’d like to call you by a name you’ve chosen yourself. A name you like." By giving him this choice, he’ll be able to pour all of himself into his new identity, and pretend this isn’t being done to him but to the entity he has chosen to bear his pain and humiliation. This gives me a weapon over him – when I come to the moment of breaking I’ll identify him so irrevocably with his pseudo-personality that the realization will throw him over the edge. Only he takes the wind out of my sails with his next words.  
  
"Call me Mulder. That’s what everybody calls me."  
  
"Even lovers?" I ask.  
  
"I don’t have any lovers," he replies, flatly.  
  
"Mulder is so formal."  
  
"Then call me Fox if you must." His tone is weary. "Names don’t matter. I don’t give a fuck what you call me." And of course I’m forced to whip him again. He screams, his muscles twitching in pain, and when he lowers his head down on the table it’s a gesture of such despair and suffering that I have no choice but to turn his sweaty head and kiss his lips firmly. He gives a low growl, and tries to bite me, but I draw back, sensing his intent, and bring the whip down hard on his body once more. He moans in pain.  
  
"Mulder, I’m going to clean you up. You’ve been lying in this urine, blood and semen for several hours. You look messy," I tell him bluntly.  
  
"Oh, I’m sorry," he says in mock contrition, and then he flinches, expecting a blow from the whip that isn’t forthcoming.  
  
"I like my recruits clean," I tell him, as I adjust the hose. Deciding that a little further discomfort is appropriate, I make sure that the temperature is freezing and then spray him with the water. He gasps, and his back arches as much as it can within his bonds. His flesh turns white, the livid red marks on his back and buttocks standing out pleasingly in contrast. I go slowly, taking great care to wash out his ass as thoroughly as I can, concentrating the spray there, and using my finger to wash inside him. His hair and face are stained with both sweat and tears, so I take some time washing those as well, and after initially turning his head gratefully to quench his raging thirst, he then starts to choke and shake his head to try to escape from the jet of water, but this is merely another indication that he must submit to my training methods and accept that he has lost control of himself.  
  
Finally, I dry him with a large towel, taking my time, caressing and fondling him. When I’ve finished I inspect his rectum. He’s red and sore, but there’s no real tearing to worry about – I resolve that he must be penetrated again while he’s in an appropriate condition to endure it. I am very careful about tearing as it interrupts the training process, so it’s a matter of professional pride to me to be able to get a penetration just right, and I certainly succeeded on this occasion.  
  
"All right, Mulder. I’m going to untie you from the table." But first I’m going to ensure his co-operation once he’s free. I fasten a belt around his waist, and attach his wrist cuffs to it, thus preventing him from hitting out. Then I undo his restraints and help him to sit up. He does this slowly, cautiously, and I know he’s feeling considerable discomfort. "Hush, Mulder. That’s it," I say encouragingly, as he hisses in pain. I place my hands on his shoulders and kiss his forehead softly, and he tries to lean away from me, but can’t escape. Then I undo the cage and binding around his cock, allowing his genitals to swing free, which is really very pleasing. "Now, you’ve been very brave, so it’s time for your reward."  
  
"Don’t tell me, you’re letting me go," he says ironically, and I laugh.  
  
"Not yet, no. You aren’t broken yet, Mulder. No, but I am going to take you to a place where there is no pain, and where you can say what you like without worrying about the whip. Come with me."  
  
I attach a length of chain to the belt around his waist, and tug him off the table. He lands awkwardly, unable to see, and not yet able to trust me to lead him. His body has been tied and abused, and he’s in shock, so his muscles aren’t exactly lively either. I give him time to get used to the flow of blood in his legs, and then pull him slowly towards the door.  
  
"You have to learn to trust me, Mulder," I tell him gently. "I promise that I will always lead you carefully and you will never have to be afraid to take the next step."  
  
"Yeah. Right," he snorts, feeling the way with his foot, and I sigh, as if in profound disappointment.  
  
"I mean it. While walking blindfolded, on the end of a chain, you’ll always be guided with utmost precision. You’ll have to allow yourself to trust me." My repetition of the word 'trust' is deliberate. "Now just relax and follow on behind."  
  
He pointedly ignores my injunction, and continues to feel his way with his feet as we walk, but he’ll learn that it’s a waste of energy. I will always guide him safely. I walk him along the basement, up into the main part of the building, and along the carpeted floors to the salon. I guide him inside, and then instruct him to stand still, while I summon my dutymen to stand guard just inside the door, before dimming the light so that it won’t hurt his eyes. That accomplished, I turn back to my beautiful captive, and seat him in an armchair over at the far side of the room. Then I unclip his wrists from his belt, and remove his blindfold. I’ve played with his body – now it’s time to play with his mind.  
  
*****  
  
Mulder blinked in surprise as his blindfold was whisked away from his eyes. It took him several minutes to grow accustomed to the soft lighting, and then to take in the details of the room. He was sitting in a tastefully patterned, faintly worn, comfortable armchair. The room was decorated like something from a Victorian men’s club, complete with darkly elegant wallpaper, and plush, burgundy carpeting. There were paintings on the walls, including some that he was sure on closer inspection would prove to be originals and worth a considerable sum of money. Tall pot plants splayed fronds of green leaves against the walls. It was all neat and uncluttered and yet somehow also curiously fussy. Finally his eyes rested on the man sitting on the couch opposite, a couch positioned – deliberately he was sure – by the fire, blocking any of the heat from reaching Mulder.  
  
The man who sat there was older than he had expected. Exquisitely elegant, dressed in a pale blue shirt with a cravat tied at a precise angle around his scrawny neck. He was tall, and very thin, his fingernails immaculately manicured, his thick, lustrous white hair set with lacquer. But it was his eyes that drew Mulder. The man’s eyes were the most beautiful he had ever seen – deep blue, almost violet in hue, vivid, intense, and chillingly, shockingly cold. Like diamonds: beautiful and yet icily indifferent. Mulder took a sharp intake of breath at finding those dazzling, gleaming orbs fixed so purposefully on him. In another time and place it might have been flattering to be the object of such focused attention, but instead it made him shiver. That was when he became aware, with a wave of sickening humiliation, that his own nakedness was in stark contrast to the fact that the three other occupants of the room were fully dressed. Mulder felt his scrotum contract, as if trying to crawl back inside his body. He covered his genitals with his hands, almost instinctively, and then realized just how futile a gesture that was after the way he had been tied and raped earlier. The action had been almost reflexive, but it was also pointless. Mulder’s eyes flickered over to the two men by the door, and then back again, deeming them unimportant – mere thugs. The only person in this room he needed to worry about was the man sitting on the couch regarding him with such interest from those glittering, inhuman eyes. Mulder hurt. He knew that at some point he would have to deal with what had been so brutally done to him just a few hours earlier, but right now it was his very survival that was in question, and some part of his mind had taken over and was blocking out emotion, panic, and the implications of his own rape, and was just trying to keep him alive.  
  
"You must be hungry – and thirsty." That voice, emanating from the scrawny man opposite, dispelled any doubts he might have had that this was not his tormentor. Mulder was surprised by the hiss of recognition that rose to his lips. So this was the man who had raped and beaten him? This emaciated, graceful, bird-like figure?  
  
"Please, help yourself." The man pointed at a small table beside Mulder, upon which, incongruously, was balanced a parody of some elegant Bostonian tea drinking ritual. There was a patterned china cup, a teapot, a plate of sandwiches, milk, lemon, a bowl of sugar, and a selection of small cakes. Mulder looked at the proffered meal, and laughed. His captor raised an eyebrow, and sipped from his own bone china cup.  
  
"You can eat as much as you like in this room," he said. "I suggest you make the most of it. This is the only place where you will be offered food, and you’ll need to keep your strength up."  
  
"So that you can keep on raping me?" Mulder asked. "Thank you but I don’t need to be conscious for that. I’ll happily starve myself if it’ll give me oblivion."  
  
His captor surprised him by merely smiling. "A little weight loss won’t do you any harm. I only eat sparingly myself – I find it keeps my senses alert. You’d have to starve yourself for quite some time to reach the level of oblivion necessary to avoid noticing your own penetration, Mulder."  
  
"You are evil - you do know that, don’t you?" Mulder asked in a tone of some wonder. It had been bad enough being tied down, raped, and beaten by a disembodied voice, but being able to see the man who was hurting him in this way, being able to put a face to the voice, sitting in this room as if he wasn’t being tortured half to death…that was what made it really chilling. He glanced down at his body, as if expecting to find it changed in some way, but apart from the occasional welt and bruise he was remarkably untouched.  
  
"I’m very skilled. I know how to maximize pain while minimizing actual bodily harm. We do intend for you to be pleasing to our clients after all – and whip marks and scar tissue generally aren’t considered very pretty." His captor smiled.  
  
"I can hardly imagine that your clients will be particularly interested in me," Mulder said with a shrug. "I’d have thought they’d prefer someone with more in the ass and tit department. I’m assuming most of your clients are men?"  
  
"Yes they are, and you’re wrong. Of course there is always demand for the ladies that we provide here, but our clients do a difficult job and sometimes need to let off more steam…and boys are more appropriate to their mood. There’s no stigma here to enjoying the services of boys, and men in high-powered jobs are notorious for needing sexual stimulation of a more varied kind. We offer all kinds of facilities." The man took another sip of his tea, his face bearing an expression of what Mulder could only define as professional pride.  
  
"Boys?" Mulder questioned. "I’m hardly that. I can’t believe your ‘clients’," he inclined his head at the word, "would find someone pushing forty, and scarred by gunshot wounds, remotely interesting."  
  
"You do yourself a disservice." The other man reached out for a sandwich, and took a small bite, chewing thoughtfully. Mulder’s mouth started to water. "You are an exceptionally attractive man, with a very pleasing body. Not only that, but you have a certain novelty value. Our clients will seek you out because you are the infamous Fox Mulder, a man they will undoubtedly have had fantasies about subduing. I predict that you will be extremely popular."  
  
Mulder closed his eyes momentarily, fighting the many aches and pains in his own body, and trying to dismiss the image of himself that the other man had just painted. Reduced to a fuck toy, a means by which his enemies took revenge on him, as well as reduced to an object, a piece of meat, something without will, or reason. It was such a negation of self that it made him want to be physically sick.  
  
"My dear boy, you look faint. Take a sip of tea," his captor advised.  
  
Mulder opened his eyes again and stared at the other man numbly. "Fuck you," he said. He didn’t know what he expected, but he flinched anyway, remembering the impersonal, biting fire of the lash back in the darkness. This time there was no reprisal. Instead his rapist merely laughed at his obvious anticipation of pain.  
  
"There’s no punishment here, Mulder. You can say whatever you like in this room. This is your respite, where you can drink, and eat, and talk without censure or interruption."  
  
"Why?" Mulder asked blankly. His captor smiled, smugly. "Who are you?" Mulder questioned desperately. "Why are you doing this to me? You can’t think you’ll get away with this. You’ll need more than one fucking week to break me." His voice hitched and he realized he had given away a pawn in the psychological game of chess that had become his life. He had implied that he was capable of being broken, given time, and to be honest, he believed that was the case. He was sure that anybody could be broken with the right degree of pressure. "In a week, Scully will start looking for me," he stated, trying to cover up his error.  
  
"Scully. Is she the person you want to find you?" his captor asked.  
  
Mulder frowned. What the hell kind of question was that? "I don’t give a fuck who finds me, I just want to see your sorry ass locked up in prison and the key thrown in the ocean," he snapped.  
  
"Well that’s unlikely to happen. I’m far too well protected, and of course I know too much to ever end up in prison." The other man smiled, smugly. "Now, you asked who I am. My name is Laurence but you will call me 'sir'."  
  
"I don’t fucking think so," Mulder snorted.  
  
Laurence smiled. "In time you will. Now, I asked you a question and I’m intrigued by the answer. Are you sure you don’t know who you’d like to come charging to your rescue?" Mulder stared uncomprehending at the other man, his mind trying to keep up with the dizzying sweeps of logic required to fight his corner, and resist this 'breaking' process for all he was worth.  
  
"I just want to go home," he said, surprising even himself by the way his voice broke as he said that last word. Laurence looked up, his eyes luminous with some kind of weirdly inappropriate compassion.  
  
"Of course you do, and you will, just as soon as we’re done," he said sympathetically. "We have no wish to tear you from your life irrevocably, Mulder. This is simply to render you more amenable to us, and our objectives. There may be a time when we require your co-operation, and when that time comes we must ensure that you are one of us, and not standing outside in the cold, where you’ll be so alone. We want to bring you inside, to take care of you, and keep you warm, and safe. When you leave here you’ll be one of us, Mulder. You won’t be alone any more."  
  
Mulder stared, helplessly at the other man. What could he say? How could he even begin to understand the kind of twisted mind that talked this way? He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. Despite his ordeal he was still relatively strong right now. The longer he stayed, the weaker he would become. The man opposite was old, and thin – he could be easily overpowered. The men by the door were a more serious problem, but if their master was threatened, then maybe they could be forced into releasing Mulder. He had nothing to lose by attempting to escape. He had already been raped and beaten. The worst they could do was to repeat the process and it seemed likely that they would do that anyway, despite the incongruously polite unreality of the tea party he was currently attending. Mulder made his decision swiftly, and was on his feet before he even opened his eyes. His ravaged body didn’t let him down, and with three steps he was across the room, his right hand had grabbed a knife from a plate as he passed, and he was holding it pressed against a scrawny throat. The guards had moved into a position of alertness, but were clearly well trained enough to do nothing without instruction.  
  
"Don’t be silly, Mulder," Laurence chided him, as if remonstrating with a small child. "They have guns – and you have a sandwich knife. It’d take you several minutes to make any impact on my flesh with that – by which time you’d be lying on the floor with a bullet hole in your leg. They’d take care not to kill you of course. We’d simply patch you up and then continue where we left off. Now do please take your hands off me, dear boy, so that we can continue our conversation."  
  
"Not fucking likely." Mulder tightened his grip around the slender throat, glancing around wildly, and was surprised when a sharp, pointed elbow thudded deeply between his ribs, winding him. He struggled to regain control of the situation, but his grasp had been weakened, and Laurence was stronger than he looked. The older man stepped back purposefully onto Mulder’s bare foot, and in the resulting confusion slipped free of him, and stepped almost casually out of reach, leaving him standing naked, clutching a dinner knife, and facing the prospect of retribution. It was at that point that Mulder lost it. He gave a bellow of sheer fear and frustration and hurled himself towards the men at the door, scrabbling desperately for escape. His fear lent him real strength, and he even managed to half open the door, before he was overpowered and disarmed. Even then he didn’t give up. He became like his namesake fox, caught in a trap, and spat, bit, hollered and hissed as he struggled in their grasp, inflicting real damage on them, aiming to gauge out their eyes with his fingernails, and bite into their flesh with his teeth. He didn’t stop fighting for several minutes, not even when Laurence called for reinforcements. It was only when he was lying on the floor, being sat on by six strong men that he finally gave up, and all the adrenaline drained from his body, leaving him a defeated, naked, humiliated huddle of flesh on the carpet.  
  
"This is most inconvenient," Laurence was fussing, as if he’d just spilled his tea down his cravat and was lamenting the dry cleaning bill. "I really wanted to talk and get to know you a little better. All right, so be it. Take him back." Through a sea of bodies, Mulder caught a glimpse of his tormentor surveying him regretfully as he was lifted. A blindfold was placed over his eyes, and he was carried back down to the room where he had been raped. He knew when they arrived from the smell of sex, fresh water, and fear that hung in the air. He gave another token struggle at that point, wanting more than anything not to be tied, but it happened anyway.  
  
His wrist cuffs were fastened to a metal bar, and then, much to his terror, the bar was raised, and he was hauled upright until he was barely standing on tiptoe. Then he was tied flat against a post.  
  
"Bring me his whip," he heard his captor say, and he cried out in protest before he even felt that trail of fire down his back. The whipping lasted longer than he thought he could endure. Laurence didn’t say a word throughout as that lash rose and fell, painting lines of pure snaking agony across his shoulders, back, and buttocks – even down to his thighs and the back of his knees. Mulder began to scream, more in rage at the indignity and his own inability to escape than anything else. He bellowed in anger, frustration and fear as much as in pain, and it was only when he had moved beyond that, into the shallow numbness of his own torment, that he was silent. He hung on the end of those manacles, staring sightlessly into the darkness of the blindfold, feeling an almost dreamy detachment from everything that was happening to him. When, finally, the beating stopped, he was a lifeless mass of spent muscle, his heaving chest the only sign that he was even alive. His head hung between his shoulders, and he found himself curiously fascinated by the sensation of something trickling down his back and thighs. He thought at first that it was blood, but then it occurred to him that it might merely be sweat. Whatever it was, it was flowing freely down his back and buttocks, and he found himself focusing on each individual trickle, strangely absorbed in their progress. He was dimly aware of footsteps leaving the room, and then he was alone.  
  
Mulder had no idea how long he hung there. It could have been minutes, or hours, or days. He was in limbo, no longer a part of his own body, or suffering. Sweat ran down the sides of his face, and under his blindfold, trickling into his eyes, and he blinked it away, humming softly to himself. He was lost. He was no longer here. He was somewhere else. Somewhere sunny.  
  
It was summer. He was standing in a street, trying to decide whether to go into a bookstore, or a diner. He was hungry, but he also wanted to read - no, he needed to read. He glanced wistfully between the two, knowing he couldn’t afford to do both. He could either bury himself in the books, or eat. Finally, with one last regretful glance at the diner, he walked into the bookstore, and he knew that somehow, by making that choice, he’d just changed his entire life.  
  
"Mulder." A voice broke into his reverie, and he felt fingers on his back, probing, exploring. A loud scream ripped through the room and he realized, with some surprise, that it came from his own lips. "I’m sorry. I’m just evaluating the extent of the damage. The incident in the salon was most unfortunate. However, I’m sure now that you appreciate the consequences you’ll modify your behavior in future."  
  
"Don’t fucking count on it," Mulder choked between chapped lips.  
  
"Come now," Laurence chided. "Can it really be worth all this pain? Hmmm? A little defiance followed by such intense discomfort. It isn’t worth it. You’re a sensible man, Mulder, you understand that."  
  
"Let me go." Mulder felt fingers on his chin, lifting his head, which hung like a lead weight between his shoulders.  
  
"Not yet, Mulder. I haven’t broken you yet. I’ll let you go when you’re broken."  
  
"I’m broken," Mulder said facetiously.  
  
Laurence laughed, his vile fingers caressing Mulder’s mouth, exploring the dry, cut lips. "No you’re not, Mulder. I can always tell. There will be many times when you tell me that you’re broken in the coming weeks. You may even believe it on some occasions, but you’ll be wrong. The human spirit can endure the most unpleasant tortures, but sooner or later, the moment of breaking will happen, and then we’ll both know. It’ll be a beautiful moment, Mulder. I can’t describe the beauty of it and I’ve witnessed it many times. You’ll be overcome with a feeling of warmth, and pleasure. You’ll know suddenly what you are, and how happy you are, and you’ll be full of gratitude to me for showing you."  
  
"I don’t think so," Mulder whispered, his mouth dry.  
  
"Trust me. I’ve seen it happen to souls just as defiant as you. One in particular." Laurence’s voice had a nostalgic tone. "He was so proud, so young, and wild, and I tamed him, and sent him onto great things. You’ve met him, Mulder. You know him. He was one of my greatest creations. I think, in time, that he will be second only to you."  
  
Mulder gave no reply. He just hung there, disinterested in his captor’s bragging about past triumphs.  
  
"Ah, you’re tired. I did warn you to sleep while you could. Now, I’m going to release you." Mulder felt the straps holding him to the post being untied, and gave a choking cry as his wrists were placed under further pressure, and then unhooked. He would have fallen to the floor, but Laurence held him under both armpits, preventing him from slumping into a heap. "You have to walk a little way. Just over here." Mulder allowed himself to be guided over to what he knew was the table, and he sat, gratefully, giving a cry of pain as his sore buttocks made contact with the vinyl table, and then tried to turn onto his front, but was stopped by his captor.  
  
"I’m sorry, Mulder, not just yet. I would normally allow you time to recuperate after a whipping, but I’m afraid on this occasion you have reparation to make," the other man said.  
  
"Reparation?" Mulder asked, the words drying in his throat.  
  
"Yes. I’m afraid that you hurt my two dutymen during the struggle. Now, if they suffer any injury, I do always allow them to take recompense. It prevents the incident from festering and rankling with them. You do understand, I hope?"  
  
"No. I don’t understand anything," Mulder said blindly, as he was carefully laid down on his burning back. He cried out, but was too tired, and empty to resist. He closed his eyes and tried not to notice that he was being tied again. His arms were fastened to the bar above his head, and his legs to the bar above his waist. He trembled, fearing the position, remembering it from when he had woken up.  
  
"That’s right. This is the delivery position, in which all my new recruits wake up," Laurence said smoothly. "I’m glad it has significance for you. However I’m going to tie you down a little more firmly in order to accomplish what we need to achieve next. I’d prefer to rely on your co-operation but you’re too newly delivered for that. Hold on." Mulder felt straps being fastened across his torso and hips, securing him to the table. He was trussed up like a chicken, his legs spread wide apart, his ass raised a fraction of an inch off the table. "All right. We’re done. Now, the first of my dutymen is extremely wide in circumference, so you’ll find him a little hard to take. We’ll ensure you’re well lubricated to prevent tearing if we can. The second is longer and more slender so you’ll find that a deeper penetration."  
  
"What the hell…?" Mulder fought against his bonds for the first time, tugging desperately.  
  
"It’s unfortunate, but I did promise them reparation. It won’t interfere with our intimacy, Mulder, so don’t worry about that." He felt cool, loathsome fingers snagging something hard and metallic around his cock and balls. "You and I have something special. I’ll reinforce that when my dutymen are finished by taking you myself. Hush now, while I allow them their due."  
  
Mulder began to tremble, his limbs going into spasm. Maybe it’s just a headfuck, he told himself. It’s not really going to happen…  
  
A few minutes later he heard footsteps – more than one set of footsteps, and then the sound of the latex glove being snapped onto a hand. He tensed as a cold, slimy finger was inserted into his ass, and cried out, a strangled "NO!" but the probing continued, loosening and lubricating him.  
  
"All right, I’m done. I’ll just hand you over to the first dutyman. You managed to bite his hand rather nastily I’m afraid, Mulder, so he’s looking forward to penetrating you. There, there. I’ll be here, watching. You’ll be fine." Mulder felt warm breath on his face, and the scrape of lips against his cheek, and then his buttocks were drawn apart and something hard was immediately pushed into his anus. He gave a hoarse shout, and Laurence stroked him comfortingly. "Take it, Mulder. You’ll soon learn that it isn’t so bad. Just give it all up. Cry as much as you want. Is there anything you want to say to me?"  
  
"Yes – let me go!" Mulder yelled as he felt his ass ripped apart by what seemed like an impossible mass.  
  
"I will, I will. When you’re broken, Mulder, when you’re broken," Laurence told him soothingly. Mulder screamed into a black void as his internal muscles were bludgeoned into submission by what felt like a battering ram. He gave a low moan as the man standing by his ass began to thrust. He could hear the sound of panting, and it made him feel physically sick. The thrusts were small, even, steady, a rhythmic pace that he couldn’t adjust to, even though he tried.  
  
"You’re doing very well," Laurence said, beside his ear. "Very well. Very beautiful."  
  
He felt a warm mouth on his left nipple and cried out again as Laurence suckled there, all the while stroking Mulder’s body.  
  
Mulder remembered a choice: a bookstore, or a diner. He remembered standing outside, and trying to decide, and he remembered going inside. It was easier remembering that than focusing on what was happening to him right now. In a dream he was aware of intense pain, and then it receded. Voices and footsteps moved away, leaving just a trickle of warmth running down his buttocks. He was alone again. A few minutes later he heard returning footsteps, and started to whimper, and tremble.  
  
"It’s all right, just another little penetration. Hush," Laurence said taking up position this time at his right side, his fingers plucking at Mulder’s right nipple, playing with it. "You scratched a long tear down the side of this dutyman’s face. If you’d found his eye you could have blinded him. He isn’t very happy."  
  
"I don’t care! I don’t care!" Mulder screamed, but his buttocks were grabbed, and parted and he felt another monstrous intrusion. This time the invading cock entered more easily, and smoothly became buried deep within his rectum, lancing an arc of pain into a region of his body that he didn’t know existed. He lay there, limply, unable to rationalize the brutality that was being inflicted on him so casually, and mercilessly.  
  
"He isn't so fucking brave now," an unfamiliar, sneering voice said from between his open legs.  
  
"Quiet!" Laurence’s voice rapped out, and Mulder stiffened at the sound. "Hush, it’s okay. He knows he isn’t allowed to speak," Laurence said, rubbing Mulder’s arm reassuringly. "You’re being very brave, Mulder. In a while, it’ll just be the two of us, just you and me, and that will be something to look forward to, won’t it?"  
  
Mulder opened his mouth and started to laugh, a dark, bellowing laugh of sheer crazy disbelief. He tried to remember the bookstore again, tried to forget what was happening to him. It smelt dank, dusty, a truly old store, full of character. He was wandering between the shelves, plucking at titles aimlessly, glancing at them, and then moving on. He loved the smell of the place, the feel of the books. He loved knowledge. He wanted to learn. He caught a flash of red. Not his own shirt…that was…concentrate…that was blue – denim. Yes, denim. He nodded to himself, felt a mouth on his nipple, sucking and playing, licking and teasing, and he wanted to be sick. There was the smell of sex in the air, not musty bookstores – sex, and semen, and sweat. He felt the man thrusting into him convulse, felt a warm, sticky flow on his ass again, and then a savage withdrawal that made him gasp out loud. Then he heard footsteps, and the sound of a door closing.  
  
"There. That’s all over. It's just you and me now."  
  
And curiously he was grateful. Damn, but he was grateful! He choked with macabre, bitter laughter. He was fucking grateful to be left alone with this psycho. He felt a damp washcloth on his ass, and then a cold, lubricated finger pressing inside his body. "Well, there’s a little damage, but nothing too severe. My men are very well trained." Smug traces of professional pride in the tone of voice. "Now, what you and I have is a real intimacy - something very special and different from mere reparation. Hold still while I remind you."  
  
Mulder was almost used to this now. Only three times and he was used to it? He closed his eyes beneath the blindfold as cool fingers caressed his burning ass cheeks, and then he was opened, and a cock slid easily into his anus burying itself to the hilt inside him.  
  
"There, that’s good. You like this, don’t you?" Laurence’s voice crooned. Mulder had no answer. He felt fingers stroke his belly, and chest, and then the slow rocking that typified Laurence’s penetration style began. Rock, rock, rock; stroke, stroke, stroke, slowing down to rocking again. Constant movement, frequent changes of rhythm, and it hurt. He was so sore that every thrust hurt, and he was choking with pain.  
  
"Please, please, please…" he cried out meaninglessly.  
  
"I know; it’s very sore here now. It hurts. I know. Hush, hush," that voice said. That voice he hated. That voice that soothed, and calmed as it hurt. "Hush, hush." Stroke, stroke. "Hush, hush." Mulder fled into the dark recesses of his own mind.  
  
He wasn’t wearing the red shirt, but somebody was. Somebody tall – taller even than he was and he’d shot up over the past couple of years during his time at Oxford. Absorbed, hardly noticing the red shirt, his fingers spidered along the spines of books, and he went to pull one out, only to find that somebody else’s hand had gotten there first – somebody with a red sleeve. He followed the creases and contours of the sleeve up an arm, and across a shoulder, to a face - a face that was frowning.  
  
"I’m sorry." He released the book as if stung.  
  
"No, please – you take it. I have enough to be getting on with here." The stranger gestured at the piles of books in his arms.  
  
"Studying?" Mulder questioned, looking at the weighty tomes, all with very serious sounding titles – mostly law texts.  
  
"Yeah. I’m writing a paper." A wry shrug. Mulder looked at the stranger’s face, suddenly fascinated by the other man’s lips. They were very soft, almost sensuous, and inviting. "How about you?" the stranger asked.  
  
"Yes. Um…I’m studying too. Psychology. Post-grad. I was at Oxford until last year…" He was babbling, no, worse than that, he was trying to impress this man, this stranger, this…very attractive stranger.  
  
"Oxford, huh?" The other man nodded, duly impressed.  
  
"It was a long way from home," Mulder said self-deprecatingly, as if that had been the only reason he had chosen to study there.  
  
"Where’s home?" The stranger’s lips crinkled at the corners when he smiled. He had very dark hair, a little curly around the edges. There was a slight layer of stubble on his chin that Mulder found wildly and outrageously sexy.  
  
"Where’s…?" The world was turning black.  
  
"Where are you, Mulder?" A hand was slapping his thigh. "Where are you?"  
  
"I don’t know," he whispered. "Not here. Not here. Not here…"  
  
Reality flooded back in so forcefully that it hurt. He was tied, and blindfolded. He was being raped…and all because he had chosen a bookstore rather than a diner 18 years ago. No, no, that wasn’t it…he was confused. Muddled. His wrists hurt. His ass hurt. Someone was pumping into his ass, back and forth; "hush, hush"; stroke, stroke; "hush, hush." A convulsion, a sense of completion, more warm fluid on his skin, and then the painful deliverance of withdrawal.  
  
"Beautiful, although you really will have to learn to stay in the moment, Mulder. I enjoyed that, and I wish you’d stayed with me. Never mind, we can work on that. Now, I’ll leave you to sleep. When I come back I’ll clean you up. Sweet dreams, my dear boy." A kiss on his cheek, and his hair was being ruffled. He turned his head and retched, but nothing came up. "Ah, it does get easier. Trust me." Another kiss. Thin, cold lips on his own. A tongue pressed into his unwilling mouth, exploring. No strength to resist. Then blessed withdrawal again, painless this time. Footsteps, the sound of a door opening, and then closing, and he was alone once more.  
  
Mulder stared up at the black void behind his blindfold, and studied the stars in the sky of his imagination. "Red sleeve," he murmured, plucking imaginary lint from a stranger’s arm. "Red sleeve."  
  
*****  
  
Well that was all very interesting. He’s shown some real fire as well as sharp wits and incredible initiative, which only makes me warm to him all the more. When he had his arm around my throat, and pressed that cold knife to my warm flesh – I believe I felt a frisson of very real desire. They were such nice arms, so warm, and strong, such smooth skin, and a delicious smell; earthy and exotic both at the same time. What a feast he is. I’m stunned by his courage, and also his cleverness. He hid his intent to attack very well, and yet it wasn’t mindless. I’ve been attacked before, of course. In the early days of a breaking it’s merely an occupational hazard…but his was so calculated, and clever. He didn’t mindlessly swing out a fist, or attempt a pointless fight with my dutymen. No, instead he gave some thought to a plan. He weighed me up and measured me as the weak link. How absolutely fascinating. Of course the knife was blunt – I wouldn’t make the mistake of having anything that constituted a real weapon within reach of a new recruit, but he couldn’t have known that from where he was sitting. Splendid.  
  
I retire to the salon, where this time I do take a shower. I enjoyed my second session with Mulder very much but by then he had been sullied somewhat by other hands, so a thorough wash is necessary. I get undressed, and look at myself in the mirror, lightly fingering my throat where his hand was so recently wrapped. There’s a slight bruise there, which gives me another frisson. Adorable boy! It was a shame to have to beat all that excess energy and exuberance out of him but his body did twitch so perfectly under the lash, and his moans were so enticing it was all I could do not to take him then and there. Still, he needed the purity of an intense whipping, and now he knows how very painful one of my special treatments can be, so I expect we’ll see some progress. I’m annoyed that our chat was cut short though. I think it’ll be necessary to try again as soon as he’s had some rest. He’ll be very hungry by then so maybe he can be prevailed upon to eat.  
  
It’s late – time for my own rest. I consider whether to go and hose him down, and make him more comfortable – he was tied in a particularly brutal manner, and he is resting in a veritable puddle of drying semen, but then again, a little discomfort at the beginning can save a new recruit more arduous treatment later on, so I think I’ll leave him for the night. The dutyman in the Observation Room will call me if he’s in any real distress. I change into my pajamas and sit in my bed. It’s amazing how hard it is to devour James Joyce with my usual passion when I have my challenging newcomer just a few floors below. I can feel my cock stir at the very thought of taking him again, but really I’d like to plunder that pretty mouth of his next. I wonder if I can get him to the stage where that’s a real possibility soon?  
  
I rarely sleep longer than 6 hours, so I’m up at dawn, and after another shower I wander down to see to my captive recruit. He doesn’t even look up when I enter. The poor lamb is utterly exhausted – maybe he’s even asleep. I tiptoe over, and the slight movement of his arm as I place my hand on it shows me that he is not sleeping. I kiss his lips, forcing them open to insert my tongue. I do relish our moments of true intimacy. He submits, because he has no choice; soon he’ll be begging for my kisses. I hose him down first – again, very cold water, but there is a method to my cruelty in this instance, as you’ll see. He shivers and tries to twist beneath the hose, spluttering and crying out feebly, but he’s soon squeaky clean. An enema is required though, after yesterday’s many activities. I insert the enema bulb, and fill him with warm water, and then untie him. He’s been tied in this unpleasant position for so long that he’s quite weak, and doesn’t fight me. I help lift him, and sit him on the commode. He defecates for me, and urinates at the same time, and I praise him, watching him bite back his sarcastic response. Ah, but the boy does have a smart tongue. I'll cure him of that in time. I repeat the enema and soon he’s clean. Meanwhile, I instruct the dutyman to clean up the rest of the room while I tend to my dear boy. He’s moaning and shivering, and his muscles are cramped. I dry him thoroughly, then guide him back to his table and remove the cock cage, leaving him naked apart from the cuffs and waist belt. I push him down onto his front, tie his legs open, and shine the lamp in the direction of his ass to inspect him more closely. I do a thorough examination of his rectum, and he is very sore, and a little torn as well. He’ll need a few days to recover, but that’s fine. We can pursue other activities while that happens. A suppository will aid healing, and I rub a cooling, antiseptic gel into his ass, which he accepts without complaint. He’s already becoming used to being handled, and entered. His back passage really is looking red and sore, so I hope he appreciates my kindness in allowing him a soothing cream.  
  
Finally, I inspect his whip marks. I didn’t break the skin, or draw blood, but his back, buttocks, and thighs are liberally covered in welts. I rub cream into them as well, which makes him flinch, and gasp, but apart from that he’s curiously silent today. I’ll have to force some conversation out of him.  
  
When he’s ready, I release him only to fasten his hands to the belt around his waist once again, attach him to my chain, and then lead him back to the salon. He’s a bit slow and unsteady on his feet this time, and still completely silent and out of it. I install yesterday’s dutymen at the door to remind him of the consequences of attack, but I really don’t think he has it in him today, and then I sit him in the armchair. He winces as his naked flesh makes contact, but then he’s silent as I remove his blindfold. He blinks, and looks at me with dull hazel eyes. I slap his face, and the pain wakens some brightness in those pretty eyes which widen, and focus on me.  
  
"Breakfast time, Mulder," I tell him softly. He eyes the plate of bagels, muffins and other goodies without interest. "Come now, you’re hungry. "  
  
I pour him a cup of cold milk, and unfasten his cuffs. He moves his arms experimentally, and his eyes flash, as if by reflex, to the dutymen. One of them has a bandaged hand, and the other a gashed face. They’re too well trained to meet his eye, but I can see the color drain from his skin as he realizes that they’re the men who raped him last night. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again he seems to have regained some composure. He takes the cup I’m offering, and his fingers wrap unsteadily around the handle. He raises it to his dry lips and takes a tentative sip. His flesh is covered with goose bumps, and he is shivering. I go and sit on the couch, by the fire, effectively blocking any heat from reaching him, and he stares at me.  
  
"You’re very quiet today, Mulder," I say conversationally, taking a sip of my own tea, and then nibbling on a bagel. "Nothing to say?" There is no reply. He stares, fascinated, at the plant closest to him. "Oh dear, I can see that I’m going to have to explain the rules." He wrests his attention back to me, with a profound effort of will, the faintest evidence of a question in those expressive eyes. "You see if you’re going to stay here, then you have to talk, and you have to talk about what I want you to talk about. Those are the little restrictions I place on these tete a tetes. I never had a chance to explain that to you yesterday."  
  
"Talk?" His mouth forms the word but I can barely hear it.  
  
"Yes. Talk. You can stay here for as long as you like, Mulder – all day if you want to. Nothing bad will happen to you in this room. There is no punishment here, no retribution, and no penetration. You have the choice to be warm, comforted, fed, and watered. However, the amount of time we spend here each day depends entirely on you. If you don’t wish to talk, or your conversation is meaningless, mendacious, or unproductive, then I’ll draw the session to an end and return you to your room."  
  
"I don’t want to talk." He gets up, and walks, unsteadily, towards the door. "I’ll go back to the room."  
  
"Where you will be tied, beaten, and penetrated." I take a sip of my tea and watch him. He staggers to a halt, and stands there for a moment, gazing at the dutymen, before he turns his head, and stares, almost sightlessly, at me.  
  
"I can stay here, and talk, and you won’t hurt me, or I go back there, and you will?" he asks softly, his hazel eyes dark with a terrible kind of knowledge.  
  
"That’s right, yes." I take another nibble on my bagel, which really is delicious. I make a mental note to compliment the chef. Mulder sways where he is standing, and then slowly, so slowly, he turns, and lurches unsteadily back to his seat. He sits down. "Another condition of staying here is that you eat and drink, and that you call me sir," I tell him conversationally. He stares at me listlessly for a moment, and then gives an almost imperceptible nod, but not before I see an intense, burning fire of defiance in his eyes. He’ll go along with me for now, because he wants to avoid further pain, and that’s fine. That’s the way they all learn to begin with.  
  
"What do you want to talk about?" He takes a faltering sip of milk, and moistens his lips. I wait. "Sir," he adds in the smallest of voices. His tone is flat, without inflection and that carries with it more fire than all the defiance in the world. He is resisting me, in his own special way, and unraveling that resistance will be my pleasure.  
  
"I thought we’d start with where you went yesterday while I was inside you the second time," I tell him, and then I lean back in the couch with an expectant expression on my face, waiting. He swallows, and glances at the bagels on the plate beside him. "Do, by all means eat." I wave my hand expansively. He shudders slightly, and looks at me again.  
  
"I’m not hungry," he says in that same dull, flat tone.  
  
"Then I must draw this meeting to an end and return you to your room. Such a shame – we’ve hardly begun to talk." I get up and nod to the dutymen.  
  
"No." His voice is so low that I barely hear it. "I’ll eat." He takes a tiny nibble out of a bagel, and I sit down again with a smile of triumph. It’s the little steps that are so rewarding; all just tiny pieces of the jigsaw puzzle, deliciously incomplete parts of a wider, more satisfying whole.  
  
"Now, back to yesterday. I feel a little insulted that you went somewhere else during our moment of intimacy. I would really prefer you to stay with me so that you can fully appreciate the bond we’re building between us. Where were you, Mulder?"  
  
He’s silent for a moment, and forces a swallow of the small bite of bagel. His mouth must be dry because even that small act seems to convulse his throat muscles. He takes another sip of milk, stares at me sightlessly for several seconds, and then gazes down at his body for the first time with real interest. He examines his flesh, his eyes fixing on each new bruise or scrape, taking in the tangible physical evidence of what has been done to him, quietly processing the information, and accepting it. Blindfolding him has meant that he has been divorced from the sight of his own suffering, if not the pain of it. Now he can see the physical evidence of what was done to him, and it shocks him. He takes a deep breath, and then looks up, directly at me. He meets my eyes, as if weighing me up, and then drops his gaze.  
  
"I was in the office," he says.  
  
"Really? Doing what?" I stir my tea.  
  
"Just working. Looking at a case file."  
  
"Which one?"  
  
"I don’t remember…" He pauses, then glances at me, with an assessing look in those expressive, vulpine eyes.  
  
"I think you must try," I tell him firmly. He nods, and swallows hard.  
  
"Uh…I do remember now. It was a case of the vampire-like killings of a herd of sheep in Oregon. Are you aware of this phenomenon? It’s fascinating. Of course there are perverts who get off on the idea of mutilating animals, and horses are the most common, but there was something particularly fascinating about these sheep because…"  
  
"You’re lying, Mulder," I interrupt quietly. It’s in his eyes. "You weren’t lost in a daydream about your office, and you cannot sidetrack me by talking about your case files, interesting though I’m sure they are."  
  
He swallows, then opens and closes his mouth, his jaw muscles slack.  
  
"I’ll give you another try but this time I require the truth. If I don’t get it there won’t be a second chance. I’ll take you down to your room and whip you."  
  
His eyes flash momentarily, and he gives me a look of such pure hatred that my heart misses a dizzy beat.  
  
"Come now, the truth won’t hurt. How can the truth be so hard?" I urge softly. He nods, and rocks slightly in his chair, the lines of his face creased with pain. "Go on," I prompt, my tone infinitely gentle. "You know that you want to tell me, and I want to hear."  
  
"I was in a bookstore," he tells me, his eyes glowing almost golden, hazy with remembrance.  
  
"Why there? Did it hold some special significance for you?"  
  
He raises a finger and idly touches his arm, rubbing mindlessly, back and forth, back and forth. It’s a sign of distress. I’m very good with body language.  
  
"Not really." He shrugs. It’s a lie - or at least a half-truth, but he might not even be aware of that so I don't point it out.  
  
"Come now, you chose it above our coupling. It must have some significance for you," I chide.  
  
"No. Just a bookstore. I was looking at the books." He shrugs again. I put my napkin down, and wave to the dutymen.  
  
"Return him to his room and beat him. If he’s going to continue to lie then I have no further interest in…"  
  
"Wait," he says desperately. I snap my fingers and the dutymen return to their post. "I met someone there," he adds hoarsely. Ah, good. We’re getting somewhere.  
  
"Who? And when was this meeting?" I ask. "Where was the bookstore?" He considers these questions, as if trying to figure out how much of himself to give away at this point. It’s not an easy game to play. He has to give me enough to keep me from sending him back to his room, but not enough that he reveals too much of his soul. He will though; unwittingly he will, because he’s tired, and he hurts, and I’m fresh, well rested, and in control. Apart from anything else this is my game we’re playing, so of course I intend to win.  
  
"A long time ago. Boston. Summer. The summer after I left Oxford."  
  
"And who did you meet?" I press again. He stares into the fire, his eyes distant, and faraway. I was right – this is important - very important. I give him a few minutes, but when no answer is forthcoming I shift impatiently, and he drags himself back to the conversation, his expression anxious.  
  
"Just someone. Someone I met there for the first time."  
  
"Who was she?"  
  
He stiffens momentarily, and his eyes slide away from mine, as if this is something he really doesn’t want to share, but there must be a reason why he went to that moment in time in order to escape from his penetration and I want to know what it is.  
  
"He was studying law books. He was a lawyer."  
  
Ah. ‘He’. This is getting very interesting. "And this was the first time you’d met him?" I urge softly. Mulder glances around the room, almost as if looking for escape. He crosses his arms over his chest, and rubs absently. His skin is covered in goose bumps.  
  
"I’m cold," he murmurs and his lips are indeed a little blue. This is intentional – he’s too far away from the fire to feel any warmth from it, and besides I’m blocking what there is. He’s naked, and he was hosed down with freezing water recently. Of course he’s cold. He’s even started to shiver and his teeth are making little chattering noises.  
  
"Then come over here, dear boy." I pat the space on the couch beside me. "You can sit next to me, in the warmth," I tell him invitingly. He looks as if he’d rather die.  
  
"No. I’ll stay here," he snaps. Another moment of defiance, and there is a look of total revulsion in his eyes.  
  
"Your own choice, Mulder. You’re welcome to sit here whenever you want though. If you get too cold just come over to the couch and sit down. You can rest your head in my lap if you like. I’ll take good care of you."  
  
"Like you’ve done already? Raping me? Beating me?" He asks, his body quivering with outrage now, instead of just cold.  
  
"Now, now, Mulder – that was all very necessary as you well know," I chide, taking a sip of tea and glancing at him over the rim of the cup. "Please continue with the story." He won’t come over to the fire today but he will one day. One day soon. Then he’ll let me pet him, and he’ll even want the comfort of human warmth. He’ll crave it. Even coming from the person who has hurt him most, it will be better than his own loneliness and despair.  
  
"He was a lawyer," Mulder says and then he’s silent again.  
  
"You’ve told me that already. Keep talking, or I’ll grow tired and send you back to your room."  
  
"A lawyer. Um…he was wearing a red shirt. I was wearing a blue one," he offers helpfully, hoping to distract me with mundanities. I frown, and he nervously moistens his lips with his tongue. "It was an old bookstore. Everything smelt musty, but there was a scent of coffee as well. This place was unusual because it was before bookstores started that trend of having coffee bars and serving food like most of them do now, but this one did, even back then, just snacks really – coffee, tea, hot chocolate, brownies, sodas. That was about it."  
  
He glances at his bagel as he talks about food and I nod encouragingly. He takes another bite and chews for an inordinately long time, dragging it out, but I’m patient. I’ve learned to be extremely patient over the years. What’s interesting about him is the little glances he gives me every now and again, looking at me as keenly as I’m looking at him and yet all the while trying to pretend he isn’t looking at me at all. He seems fascinated by the collar of my shirt, and I place a hand to my throat, wondering what has drawn his attention.  
  
"He was older than me. He had a high-powered job in Boston. He was going places. He had a head for law, in a way that I never did. My mind doesn’t work like that. Oh, I can do the book learning stuff easily enough, but I’m more…intuitive. He loved it though – he loved the law the way other people love their mothers. It almost…I don’t know, sang to him, seduced him…he was the smartest guy I’d ever met. I was studying psychology and I think that puzzled him. He thought it was a soft science."  
  
"Let’s go back a little way. You said this was the first time you’d met him. How did you get talking?" I put aside my breakfast, feeling quite full. Mulder takes another nibble on his bagel. He looks so stiff, and still, sitting bolt upright in his chair, his beautiful body marked with little bruises here and there, his hair tousled and awry. He really doesn’t look any older than Luke at this moment in time, and yet his youthful appearance is an illusion that I mustn’t allow to fool me. He has age and experience on his side, and, as he has just said, a clever, intuitive mind.  
  
"We both wanted the same book. We agreed to share it over coffee. He wasn’t going to buy all those books – he had access to a huge legal library through his firm anyway – but he was looking for something obscure, something different…"  
  
He breaks off with a strange laugh and I understand why.  
  
"Ah, and he found you. Someone obscure, someone different." He looks away and shrugs. It is most interesting the way his eyes are almost sightless, and hazy when he’s looking away, but they become sharp and observant when looking at me. Something tells me that this fox is trying to play a cleverer game than I’ve given him credit for.  
  
"Tell me more about the lawyer," I prompt as the silence wears on for a little too long. "So, what happened? You began to talk?"  
  
He shifts in his seat. This is really becoming uncomfortable for him.  
  
"Yes. It was nothing. We just talked. He told me all about himself. All the lawyer stuff. That was it. Then we went home."  
  
"And you never saw him again?" I hardly think so. He shrugs, and nods. I get up.  
  
"Very well, that was your last chance, Mulder. Next time you’re here, please think carefully about the truth. I do not only expect it, I demand it."  
  
He looks up anxiously, his eyes clouded with the knowledge of impending pain. "No, wait. There’s more. I can…"  
  
"Not this time," I inform him curtly. "It’s time for you to be returned to your room. You’ve worn out my goodwill."  
  
He considers the matter for a moment, and then stands, his eyes exhibiting the full force of his defiance. I fasten his wrists to his belt, and attach the chain to him.  
  
"One thing I was wondering, Laurence," he says, just as I start to turn away to take him to his room. I glance back, about to reprimand him for calling me by name, but what he says next takes my breath away. "I’ve noticed that your cravat is tied more loosely today than yesterday. Why is that? If you tied it more tightly it would obscure the bruise around your throat - the bruise I gave you during my attack. I was wondering why you chose to display that?"  
  
"What an intriguing question!" My hand goes involuntarily to my throat, and I fuss with my cravat a little. I knew he’d try to engage me in conversation, to attempt to out-psyche me, but the strange direction of his questioning really has taken me by surprise and I think he knows that because there’s a tiny smile tugging at those full, sensuous lips.  
  
"Maybe you’re proud of the bruise," he offers. "It’s something real, something unplanned. You have so much control in this little empire of yours, Laurence. Did it excite you to experience a moment that wasn’t in your power and control?"  
  
His lips really are most beautiful when he smiles. I obviously have no choice but to slap him across the face. Once, hard, and then back the other way – twice, even harder. A tiny bubble of blood wells up on those lips, rendering them even more beautiful, exciting me. Pulling him close, I kiss those lips fiercely, licking them, tasting that warm, sweet blood, and then I release him, and brush a hand through my hair, which has been ruffled by the exertion.  
  
"Take him back to his room and beat him," I order the dutymen. I examine Mulder for a moment, but his eyes do not change in anticipation of his coming discomfort. Instead he just watches me, observing me minutely. I glance at his naked body – the welts on his back and buttocks are still livid, and, in any case, I like the cruelty of what I’m about to do next. "Open his thighs and whip him there – between groin and knee. Maximum severity. Then tie him up and let him sleep." Again I search his face for any sign of a reaction, but his hazel eyes are dark and expressionless. He doesn’t beg, but then he has no idea just how painful a whipping he is about to endure. Next time I threaten it I predict he will beg and plead with me. "I’ll visit you later for more intimacy," I tell him softly, stroking the side of his face. He moves his head, his loathing lighting up his eyes like a beacon, and I smile, and continue caressing him. I like that the food has given him back some of his fight. It’s arousing. I fondle him for a few seconds, almost unwilling to allow the delicious creature out of my sight, and he leans so far back that the dutyman has to hold him in place to accept my embrace.  
  
Finally, with a regretful sigh, I nod my head at the dutymen to pull my plaything away. I purposefully turn my back on him to show that his suffering has little relevance to me. Nor does it matter whether I witness it or not. Even without my presence he will still cry out under the lash. Yet, as they reach the door, I cannot help but glance back to watch him go.  
  
*****  
  
Mulder submitted in silence to the blindfold being placed over his eyes once again in the doorway. He hadn’t slept much the previous night, and when Laurence had brought him to the salon earlier he had been so weak and exhausted that his muscles barely worked. The respite of food and drink had cleared his head. His body still hurt in places he hadn’t even known existed before, but he knew now that it was important that he ate and drank whenever food and water were offered. Food kept his mind alive, and his mind was his only weapon so far. He knew, with a hideous clarity, that he had lost the battle for his body. It had been abused, and would continue to be so. He had been stripped of dignity, and suffered an appalling degree of pain. However, he still had his mind. Whatever happened to his body, he must not allow Laurence to control his mind, and he would agree to anything, and play any sick, twisted little game in order to keep his sanity. Right now, he had to block out the torture, hard though it was. Later, if he ever got out of this alive, he could break down, and give in to it, but right now he had to be strong.  
  
He stumbled along the corridor on the end of his chain, and memories of visiting elephants in the zoo arose unbidden in his mind. He had always hated seeing those big, graceful animals on the ends of leashes like dogs. His own situation had less poignancy to him than those elephants. He was a man, with free will. He could rationalize his own humiliation, and indignity. He knew why he was chained, but they did not. To them it was an abhorrence of their natural instinct to roam free, as part of a herd. Tears pricked at the back of his eyes as he considered the frustration of their natures, and the chains around his own body suddenly seemed an unbearable incursion on his own independent spirit. He tried to catch his breath, but before he knew it he was experiencing a full-blown panic attack. He struggled, uselessly he knew, against his chains. A voice inside his mind was telling him to keep calm, to forget that he was walking naked, chained, and abused towards another whipping, but while he had been able to see in the salon, and move his hands freely, he was now chained and blindfolded again, and a wave of claustrophobia swept through him, causing a cold sweat to break out on his body. The sound of his beating heart drowned out all other noise, and he felt the world slow into a dull, drumming rhythm all around. His legs refused to work, and he sank to the carpeted floor. There was an imperative tug on the chain attached to his belt, but he curled up on the ground, and lay there, immune to the shouting voices, quivering and shivering. A cool, clinical, detached part of his mind knew that he was in a state of shock, and probably suffering from hypothermia, and he cursed the weakness of his body. How could he stay strong enough to play Laurence at his own game if his body let him down? He was convulsing now, his entire body shaking, and as he lay there, he realized he could dislodge the blindfold. He rubbed his head on the floor, heard the guards calling out, and a few seconds later the sound of footsteps, but by then he had moved the blindfold enough to get a glimpse of a long, dimly lit hallway, lined with plush red carpet, and a doorway in the distance. Then his eyes alighted on a pair of shiny dark shoes, and his heart contracted in fear. He knew who they belonged to.  
  
"Mulder, my dear boy." A pale, paper-thin hand, blotched with liver spots came into view, and touched his shoulder. He flinched away from it, full of revulsion. "Hush now. I’m sorry." Scrawny arms captured him, and held him against a cold cotton shirt. He retched, still trembling. "This is my fault. You’re distressed because you wanted me to administer the beating myself. I can understand that. We have a bond, you and I."  
  
Mulder would have laughed if his chattering teeth could have been made to obey the incredulous sense of wonder in his own mind. "I…I… don’t want to b…be beaten at all," he managed to force out.  
  
"Of course you don’t, but you do understand that it’s necessary."  
  
"No…" he shook his head, frustrated by his own impotence.  
  
"Hush. Of course you do. My dear boy you’re freezing!" Loathsome hands caressed his body lasciviously. "You should have come into the warmth of the fire. I could have warmed you. I would have held you if you’d only asked. Foolish, proud boy."  
  
Laurence’s tone was chiding, and he held Mulder so close that the younger man could feel the sharp outline of his torturer’s ribs. Mulder felt his shivering lessen slightly, and hated his own body for responding to something as basic as warmth.  
  
"Take your fucking hands off me," he growled, turning his head. He could see his tormentor – closer than he’d ever been able to see him before. Laurence smelled of lavender, and something else, something bitter. His closeness was almost impossible to bear. Those violet eyes were just a few inches away, radiating concern mingled with cruelty – and something that Mulder defined, with a shudder of disgust, as lust.  
  
"We must get you to your room. Then I’ll be able to take better care of you. And your blindfold has slipped, dear boy. There. That’s better."  
  
Mulder growled with frustrated anger as darkness descended once more, and then he found himself lifted by the strong arms of the guards. His wrists were untied from the belt, his own arms were slung over their shoulders, and he was half-walked, half-carried back to his room.  
  
He knew the room by the smell, and by the feel of concrete under his feet – all the better to wash away the blood he thought to himself. He was forcibly laid on the table and then bound again – tightly – his arms by his side, wide plastic straps over his torso. He felt hands on his legs, and they were forced open, leaving his inner thighs revealed. Remembering what was in store for him, he struggled pointlessly against his bonds, screaming in rage and frustration.  
  
"That’s better. I wondered when you’d give in to that," Laurence said, and Mulder felt a hand on his forehead, smoothing his hair. "Often people struggle the moment they first become aware of their captivity," Laurence murmured. "You were different. You were so silent, and still. You’ve been very good at rationalizing your loss of freedom, and what has happened to you, but sooner or later you had to give in to your feelings. Nobody can deny their feelings forever."  
  
"Don’t be so fucking sure," Mulder screamed, fighting the hands that were trying to tie his legs down in position, ready for the whipping.  
  
"Ah, you sound as if you’re speaking from experience. Feelings denied…would those be for the exquisite Doctor Scully?"  
  
Mulder fell silent, his muscles going limp. He didn’t resist the hands on his legs any more.  
  
"Are you in love with Doctor Scully?" Laurence asked. "You’ve been working with her for a long time. She’s a very pretty woman. Have you slept with her?"  
  
"No." Mulder ground the word out.  
  
"All those pent-up feelings, going nowhere. No wonder you’re impotent. We’ll cure that for you."  
  
"Some fucking cure. This doesn’t turn me on in case you didn’t notice," Mulder spat.  
  
"No, of course it doesn’t. Not yet." Laurence soothed Mulder’s hair again. "Now, relax, dear boy. You allowed yourself to grow cold in the salon, which is your own fault. Warmth was offered. This room is warm but I’m going to speed the process a little – I want you fully fit to appreciate the beating I’m going to give you. I’ll make this whipping very intimate." A finger traced a line along his inner thigh and he almost jumped out of his skin. "Whippings can be intimate. This won’t be like yesterday. This will be longer, more concentrated and intense. Oh, just as painful, but you know, I think I’ll allow you to watch. That way we can truly share the moment. Hush now. I’m going to warm you up."  
  
Mulder descended into blackness, as long thin fingers were placed on his body, and he realized, with incredulity, that he was being massaged. Laurence went slowly, warming Mulder with a brisk, thorough rub down, talking to him all the time he worked.  
  
"You’re so very beautiful." Lips pressed against his shoulder, and neck, and then his face. He turned away. "Very beautiful." His head was turned back, and he was kissed again. The fingers continued their work, warming his frozen flesh where they could reach around the straps that bound him. "You have an exquisite ass. I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed your ass. Being inside you is the most arousing experience – watching your uninhibited response."  
  
"And knowing how much I hate you and what you’re doing to me?" Mulder asked softly, puncturing the other man’s flow. There was a little laugh, and those fingers pressed deeply into his arms, loosening his muscles even further.  
  
"Oh yes. I like your pain," Laurence chuckled. "I enjoy it. Knowing it hurts, hearing your cries…very satisfying. Very arousing."  
  
"Fucking pervert," Mulder hissed. "How many people have you done this to, Laurence? Do you only get off on pain, humiliation, and misery? Have you ever been loved, honestly loved by anybody?"  
  
"Oh yes. All the people I break come to love me. You will too. What about you, Mulder? Have you ever been loved by anybody?"  
  
Mulder bit down on his bloodied lip, and refused to answer. He wasn’t expecting the hard slap on his cheek and cried out more in surprise than pain when it came.  
  
"This isn’t the salon, Mulder. There are punishments here," Laurence told him.  
  
"Yes, I’ve been loved," Mulder said.  
  
"By someone other than your mother?" Laurence laughed at him. "And me of course," he added softly. "Your mother and me. Are we the only people who have ever truly loved you, Mulder?"  
  
"No," Mulder whispered, struggling against the dark.  
  
"Then who else has loved you? Does Doctor Scully love you?"  
  
"I don’t know. I think she’s…fond of me. She tolerates me."  
  
"And most people don’t?" Laurence asked, his fingers finding Mulder’s solar plexus and massaging there, gently.  
  
"I’m an acquired taste," Mulder replied.  
  
"And a taste that I have most definitely acquired!" Laurence said, and his lips sucked hard on Mulder’s right nipple, making the agent gasp, and squirm. "A unique flavor – very exotic, but peculiarly earthy as well. I like that," Laurence said, massaging the nub of flesh he had just tasted. "So tell me why you think you are so hard to love."  
  
"I didn’t say that," Mulder protested. Had he?  
  
"You said you are an acquired taste. Is it that people find it hard to warm to you? Or maybe you infuriate them? Which is it, Mulder?"  
  
"Why don’t you go and look in your files. All the answers are there," Mulder whispered, turning his face away, longing for rest.  
  
"Files?"  
  
"Don’t tell me that he didn’t give you files on me."  
  
"Who is 'he'?"  
  
"That cigarette smoking son of a bitch." Mulder clenched his fist as his hand was unfastened, and lifted, and felt Laurence try to pry his fingers apart.  
  
"Ah, you are referring to our mutual friend. Yes, he did give me files, but I haven’t opened them yet. You see, I already knew quite a lot about you before you were delivered, Mulder. Over the years I have had many men arrive in my salon seeking an outlet after a run in with you. You were described to me in some detail and usually in the same terms: headstrong, obstinate, interfering. A few of them wanted to kill you, but that was forbidden. And now here you are, being broken instead, which is so much nicer, isn’t it?"  
  
"For you," Mulder snapped, still keeping his fists firmly clenched in a useless gesture of rebellion. He was smacked hard across the face again.  
  
"Open them, Mulder. I want to massage these beautiful, artistic fingers," his captor crooned. Mulder clenched them so tight he was sure his nails were drawing blood on the inside of his palms. "Ah, pointless defiance. Does it make you feel less emasculated?" Laurence asked. "More of a man?"  
  
"Does it make you feel more of a man to rape helpless captives?" Mulder asked. "Is that the only way someone will have sex with you? If you tie them up and force them?"  
  
"Why would I want to have sex any other way?" Laurence laughed.  
  
"Because you can never be surprised like this," Mulder whispered. "You can never know a love that doesn’t come without fear as a side order. You control it all – doesn’t that become tiring after a while? Boring even?"  
  
His hand was dropped abruptly.  
  
"Ah well. Time for your whipping I think." Laurence’s tone was as urbane and cultured as ever, there was nothing in his inflection to show that Mulder had scored any kind of hit, but he took a little comfort from the way the massage had been halted so suddenly. His hand was refastened. "You’re much warmer now and the whipping will warm your blood some more. Hold on…let me raise your head so that you can see." Mulder felt the table being adjusted so that his shoulders were raised several inches. His blindfold was removed, and he blinked looking around for his first glimpse of this room – then took a sharp intake of breath, surprised by the sight that met his eyes. The room was dimly lit, and glowed red and orange from the light of a myriad of candles. It was as if the room had been prepared as a romantic lover’s den, and not this place of torture and rape.  
  
"It’s pretty isn’t it?" his captor said, glancing around the room. "I have to spend a lot of time here and I like my working environment to be pleasing, somewhere you want to linger."  
  
"It’s sick," Mulder stated flatly. He could just about make out dim objects on the periphery of the room. He could see the bar and post he had been tied to yesterday, and various other outlines on shelves around the edge of the room. Outlines that made him shudder. He couldn’t be sure what the objects were – it was too dark – but his imagination supplied the details that his eyes could not. He gave an involuntary shudder and turned his attention back to what he could see – which was limited to the two or so feet around the vinyl table he was tied to. A large adjustable lamp positioned by his torso lit his body, dappling the rest of the room in huge, dramatic shadows.  
  
"Your whip is always kept above your table. Remember that as you’ll be ordered to fetch it on occasion," Laurence told him, reaching for a long curled object resting on a hook above him.  
  
Mulder watched without expression as Laurence wound the whip around his hand and unwound it again, as if testing its strength, or showing it off to his captive, which was more likely. It was more like a long, flat belt than a whip – maybe it was more flexible. Laurence folded the whip over and then slapped it against his hand where it made a flat, thudding sound. Mulder closed his eyes.  
  
"Open them." Laurence caressed the side of his face, and when Mulder was slow to obey, slapped him hard again. Mulder opened his eyes. "I want you to watch me whipping you. We can share the experience that way. It’ll increase our intimacy."  
  
"You’re fucking crazy, you do know that don’t you?" Mulder said, almost wearily.  
  
"No, my dear boy. You are. When I’ve broken you, you’ll see it all quite clearly. Now, you’re completely immobile, so there’s no point struggling. Just watch."  
  
Mulder could do little else, as the thin man went to stand between his open, tied legs. Laurence caressed the skin there for several minutes, occasionally looking up and smiling at his captive as he did so.  
  
"The skin on the inner thigh is very soft. That’s part of the reason why it hurts so much to be whipped here. I’ll go very carefully but this will take quite some time. I want you to fully appreciate the level of pain I can take you to," Laurence murmured, his eyes aglow with a kind of sick glee that made Mulder retch. The candlelit room took on demonic proportions as his captor raised his arm, and the whip fell, inexorably towards the offered flesh. Mulder gave a startled grunt as the whip razored into his thigh. It hurt in a sharp way, and the pain was different to the dull thudding agony he had experienced when his back had been beaten. This stung, and bit, and each lick hurt with an intensity that drove him half out of his mind with pain. All the strokes were measured, and delivered at the exact same interval. Laurence didn’t go fast. He allowed the sting of each stroke to fade before delivering the next, and then the next. Mulder felt his breathing speed up, and he struggled pointlessly against his bonds.  
  
"There, there," Laurence murmured, his violet eyes burning intensely as he went about his work. "I know it’s worse because you have the constant desire to close your legs to avoid the pain, but you can’t. I know how hard that is, but if you accept that you can’t then it’s much easier."  
  
Mulder took no notice. His thighs were burning up as that whip rose and fell on their inner surface, making him scream with pain as each lick slapped home. Laurence was thorough and methodical. He worked his way down from groin to knee, and back up the other side, and then started again where he had begun. There was a swish, a streak of agony, a heartbeat of recovery while the sting faded, and then another swish. Mulder bit down hard on his lips.  
  
"Please…" the cry escaped his lips before he had a chance to stop it.  
  
"That’s right, dear boy, scream all you like. Scream, and plead, and beg. Let it all out," Laurence encouraged. "Tell me about the darkness, Mulder. Tell me what it feels like not to be loved, to know that others dislike you. Tell me about that, Mulder."  
  
Mulder tried to open his mouth to say that wasn’t what he had meant, but instead all that came out were whimpers of pain.  
  
"Are you lonely, Mulder? You live alone. You never take vacations. You don’t have relationships, and your last sexual encounter was an abject failure by your own admission. Does this weigh on your mind, Mulder, or do you have other things to worry about? Your work, maybe? Are you highly regarded there? Or are you seen as a bit of a joke? Ah, I see by your expression that the latter is true. How sad. What is it some of my clients have called you – ‘spooky’ isn’t it? You’re a little like Cassandra, the prophetess, doomed never to be believed, an object of derision. How does that feel, Mulder?"  
  
Mulder screamed in wordless pain for all the insults he had suffered over the years, for all the put downs, all the times his fellow agents had looked at him with that mixture of sympathy and derision in their eyes. Spooky Mulder, the agent who’d fucked up his own career – he’d had such promise once. Nobody had ever believed in him, not even Scully. Not even Skinner…although he knew there were times when they both wanted to, sometimes even when they did, but those times were rare.  
  
"Is that what they call you? ‘Spooky’? Is that how they devalue your work in one word?" The lash rose and fell. "That must be very hard for you. I imagine you were always the clever one, always getting respect wherever you went. You were smart enough to study at Oxford after all. To end up being laughed at – that’s so cruel. It must gnaw on you. Poor boy. My poor dear boy."  
  
Mulder choked out a lifetime’s rage at the injustice of how he and his work were perceived as that whip bit into his thighs. The pace had picked up now, and he was screaming in time to the lash.  
  
"It doesn’t matter. I don’t need…I don’t need recognition!" He screamed over the sound of the whip slapping into his flesh.  
  
"Of course you don’t, but to be constantly put down – and when you know that you’re good. When you know you’re the best investigator they have, and that you’re right. Still not to be taken seriously, even by those you love… who are they, Mulder?" Mulder felt as if he were in hell. The red glow of the room was dizzying, swirling around the red mists of his own pain, and there was the devil himself standing between his outstretched thighs, hurting him more than he could take, or endure. The sweat was trickling down his chest in a steady stream, and he laughed, remembering with some small vestige of irony that Laurence had promised he would warm him.  
  
"Nobody. I don’t love anybody!" He screamed, and the lash bit down harder and faster.  
  
"That’s a lie, Mulder, and lies are always punished. Who do you love? Do you love Scully?"  
  
"Yes…but not as you think…as a friend…as a partner…as someone who has been through everything with me, and never abandoned me…"  
  
"Who abandoned you, Mulder?" Laurence asked, alighting on a detail Mulder had never meant to give away, his burning eyes the only thing Mulder could now see. Violet eyes, velvet voice.  
  
"Nobody."  
  
"Your father?"  
  
"Nobody." Choked. Deceitful.  
  
"Your lover? The man you met in that bookstore? The lawyer? Did he abandon you?"  
  
"Fuck you!"  
  
"Did he?" There was only the lash and his tortured body.  
  
"Yes! Fuck you. Yes!"  
  
The pain stopped.  
  
Mulder moved his head blearily, and then became aware of fingers on one of his hands, unfastening it, and then a slow, gentle massage of his own fingers.  
  
"Wha…?" He asked hazily.  
  
"I’m just finishing where we left off. Massaging your hands. I always finish what I start, Mulder. You’ll learn that whatever small rebellions you attempt, you’ll never find a way to deflect me from my purpose. See, you’re much more amenable now, and these fingers are very lovely. I do enjoy touching them." Laurence bent his head and kissed the fingers, then sucked each one into his mouth. Mulder, still lost in his own pain, let him. "Lovely. Salty with sweat – you’re nicely warm now." Laurence finished his massage, and stood looking down on his captive, a fond expression in his violet eyes.  
  
"So, you had a homosexual experience in your early twenties with the lawyer from the bookstore," he murmured. Mulder made no reply. Laurence moved quickly, slapping the burning flesh of Mulder’s thighs with his right hand. Mulder gave a gasp of pain. "Answers are required in this room," Laurence said.  
  
"Yes. I did," Mulder choked. It wasn’t much to give away. It didn’t matter. He was so tired.  
  
"What was his name?" Laurence asked, stroking Mulder’s trembling shoulder with his finger.  
  
"I don’t remember." He flinched before the blow struck home, and the pain wrapped itself around the core of his soul, leaving him with aftershocks that made him tremble.  
  
"It was years ago. It was a short affair. Just a couple of months. I don’t remember," he whispered. "I’m tired. You promised you’d let me sleep."  
  
"I made no such promise," Laurence said, idly running his index finger around Mulder’s nipple.  
  
"You told the guards. You said that after I was whipped I could sleep. I want to sleep," Mulder begged.  
  
"It wasn’t a promise to you – it was an instruction to them. And circumstances changed, didn’t they, Mulder? When you freaked out in the hallway my plans changed. I’m a very flexible man. I like to match myself to the pace of each new recruit. What was his name?"  
  
"I don’t remember. Honestly," Mulder choked.  
  
"You had an affair with him but you never allowed him to penetrate you? I know you were most definitely a virgin when I took you yesterday."  
  
"No, we didn’t…that is I was very young. He liked…he liked me to…I sometimes…to him…he liked that." Mulder shuddered, remembering those faceless men thrusting into him yesterday. It had been so different between him and his lover. They had spent nights languorously making love. He had loved the sensation of his lover's warm ass around his cock, and the way his lover had looked up at him, with passion and arousal in his beautiful dark eyes.  
  
"And he was the only one? Your only homosexual experience?" Laurence pressed.  
  
Mulder moistened his lips. "Yes. I was young. I was confused about my sexuality…so was he, I think."  
  
"Yet he was older than you?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And he left you?"  
  
"It was a mutual decision." Another slap on his thighs, and he moaned in agony.  
  
"That’s not what you said a minute ago. You said he abandoned you. Explain it to me."  
  
"I don’t remember. It was a long time ago. It’s been over for a long time. I haven’t slept with another man since."  
  
"Until yesterday," Laurence chuckled. "Now you’ve slept with three other men. Now we’re all part of you, Mulder."  
  
"No. That was rape. I’ve only ever slept with him," Mulder replied firmly. Laurence laughed.  
  
"Semantics and you know it. Before I’m through with you you’ll have slept with hundreds of men, dear boy, and you’ll even have learned to enjoy it. You’ll get down on your knees, and open your mouth or ass to any man who snaps his fingers in your direction."  
  
"And then I’ll be just like all the other whores you’ve trained. No different. Just a body. Not me any more. Does that thought please you, Laurence?" Mulder asked, and for a second he knew he had hit a nerve. He didn’t understand how, or even know how to use the knowledge, but he just saw the faintest shadow in those icy violet eyes, and then it was gone.  
  
"You’re wrong. You’ll still be you, with all your delightful contradictions. Just a happier you, dear boy. One trained to my will and whim. One who is more amenable to good sense, and instruction by your elders and betters."  
  
"It won’t happen," Mulder stated flatly.  
  
"It’s already starting to."  
  
Laurence moved away, back down between Mulder’s thighs. He placed a finger in his mouth and then touched the wet digit to Mulder’s heated flesh. Mulder winced.  
  
"This is good. Very sore – you’ll find walking hard for a day or so. Now, did you ever figure out your sexuality, dear boy? No more men, but you’ve slept with women?"  
  
"Yes." Mulder was desperately aware that Laurence was standing between his outstretched legs.  
  
"Any long term relationships?"  
  
"No. Not really…a few brief flings - with women."  
  
"And no more inclinations to take another male lover?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Why? Didn’t you enjoy it?"  
  
"No…that’s not it. I…there was never…" Mulder felt exhausted. He could feel the sweat trickling down the side of his face, and flinched, waiting for another smack on the sore flesh of his inner thighs.  
  
"Oh. I see." Laurence’s voice was suddenly full of compassion. "My poor boy, I had no idea." He moved again, silently, and slowly, graceful as a cat, bony as a cadaver, looming in and out of the shadows. "Oh, Mulder." He took Mulder’s face between his hands and looked deep into his eyes. Mulder gazed back, transfixed and helpless, unable to move away. "My poor Mulder." Laurence wiped away tears and sweat from Mulder’s cheeks. "You never found another man you could love as much as you loved him. Nobody else ever matched up, did they?" Mulder closed his eyes, drowning in the dark. The pressure of the hands on the sides of his face remained constant, and he was alone with this evil monster, alone with his own sadness, and loneliness.  
  
"No," he whispered at last.  
  
There was silence. Laurence dropped his head and Mulder lay slumped and exhausted, lost in a haze.  
  
"It feels good to talk about it doesn’t it?" Laurence said softly. He picked up the blindfold, and returned to the table with it.  
  
"Not really," Mulder replied. He welcomed the return of the blindfold, as Laurence slipped it over his head. He hoped he’d be left alone now, even for a little while, so that he could regroup, recover some of his composure, and make sense of what was happening to him. He needed time, time to heal, and time to sleep. As one of his arms was untied he realized, much to his dismay, that he wasn’t going to get it. Laurence hadn’t finished with him yet.  
  
"You’ve done very well, Mulder, and now I’m going to reward you. Touch yourself." His hand was placed on his own shriveled cock.  
  
"What?" Mulder could hardly believe what he was being ordered to do, still less obey.  
  
"Touch yourself. I’m going to allow you to come."  
  
"This will probably come as a surprise to you but I don’t feel remotely in the mood," Mulder said. His cock felt rubbery and unreal beneath his fingertips, without any spark of life.  
  
"Well, that’s a pity, because you know I wanted to give you time to heal internally after yesterday’s activities. If you won’t touch yourself, and bring yourself to climax, then I’ll take my climax instead." Mulder heard the familiar snap of latex, and then a cool, lubricated finger circled his anus.  
  
"No, wait!" He said quickly.  
  
"You want to try?" Laurence asked.  
  
"Yes. I’ll try." He felt something cool squeezed into his palm. Lubricant. And then his hand was placed back around his flaccid cock.  
  
"Think of someone attractive," Laurence purred in his ear. "Tell me what this lawyer of yours looked like."  
  
Mulder swallowed hard, and began stroking his own cock. He knew that he couldn’t take another anal penetration after yesterday’s rapes. His back passage was raw, and apart from that he wasn’t sure that he could stand it psychologically when he was feeling so tired and weak. He had to try. He had to think of something…  
  
"He was tall. Taller than me. He had very dark hair – curly around the edges. White teeth and the nicest lips." Mulder remembered those lips sliding around his cock, and massaged it hard with his hand. His cock remained resolutely limp. "Christ this isn’t going to work! You don’t understand – I can barely get it up when I’m sitting at home in front of a porn fest," Mulder spat.  
  
"That’s because you’ve repressed yourself for too long. Do you ever think of him when you masturbate?" Laurence asked.  
  
"No!" Mulder snapped. He gave a cry of raw pain as his inner thighs were slapped.  
  
"Don’t lie."  
  
"I’m not…that is…I do sometimes, but I try not to. I try not to," Mulder whimpered.  
  
"Why? You loved him, you found him very attractive. He turned you on, didn’t he?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Then why not think about him when you masturbate?"  
  
"Because…it hurts too much," Mulder gasped. "Wanting…not having…"  
  
"I see." Laurence sounded puzzled. "It was a long time ago though."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"No wonder you’re impotent if you deny yourself this kind of pleasure. It’s repression and denial, Mulder, and we must work on it. You can think of your young lawyer – you’re free to do that here. I’m giving you permission."  
  
"I can’t tell you what a difference that makes," Mulder commented sarcastically, and then he howled in pain as this time the whip landed on his open thighs instead of Laurence’s hand.  
  
"What I’m going to do is stand here with your whip. If you fail, then I’ll use it. I’ll also make love to you again. It’s entirely up to you, Mulder. You have a choice between masturbation or penetration."  
  
Mulder exhaled a long, deep breath, and stroked his flaccid penis again. The lube was sticky on his fingers, and his hand slid along the length of his shaft, but there was resolutely no spark of interest. He closed his eyes behind the blindfold, and tried to remember what it had been like. Laurence was right – he was in a kind of denial, but there was a good reason for that. Why torment yourself with something you couldn’t have? And he knew that if he thought about it too much, if he remembered those all too short, but intensely wonderful, perfect months in his early twenties, then he’d want it all again. He’d want to feel those lips around his cock, and those large, welcoming arms around his shoulders. He’d want to look into dark, fiery eyes, and see his own passion reflected back at him there.  
  
"What happened in the bookstore, Mulder?" Laurence asked, and Mulder cried out as his captor sank a lubed finger back into his anus. The whip slapped down on his thigh. "What happened?" Laurence repeated. "What happened?"  
  
The bookstore was dark, but it was sunny outside. Their fingers had met on the spine of the book, and they’d laughed. Mulder’s stomach chose that moment to rumble.  
  
"Sounds like you’re hungry," the stranger commented.  
  
"Yeah – it was a choice of here or the diner next door. I'm a student - I can't afford to both read and eat." Mulder shrugged.  
  
"I remember that choice from my own student days." The stranger gave a small, wistful smile of remembrance. Mulder put his head on one side, fascinated. "Look, why don’t I buy you a coffee and something to eat, and then we can share the book."  
  
"No, I’m fine." Mulder felt his skin betray him by coloring a deep shade of red. He hadn’t meant to sound as if he was begging for food.  
  
"It’d be my pleasure. I’ve been sitting in a room on my own studying for a week – I could do with some conversation, and you could do with some food. It’s a fair exchange."  
  
Mulder looked into a pair of dark, sincere eyes, and found himself nodding, now suddenly and curiously tongue-tied. He was bowled over by the attraction he felt for this stranger, and he listened intently to the other man’s introductions and talk of his job, as they sat at a table. Mulder was fascinated by the other man’s work and his smile in equal measure but his new friend was self-deprecating about the former, saying how much he loved the law in one breath, but denigrating the law firm where he worked in the next.  
  
"You seem conflicted." Mulder spooned three sugars into his coffee, and took a sip.  
  
"Conflicted?" The other man raised an eyebrow, a wry smile tugging the corners of those sensuous lips. "I can tell you’re doing a psychology degree," he commented. Mulder grinned.  
  
"Yes – and that was a classic case of deflection," Mulder teased. He liked this man. He was Mulder’s intellectual equal without being patronizing or self important with it, and that was a refreshing change from the people Mulder had met so far in his life.  
  
"You’re right. I am unhappy in my work," his new friend sighed. "It’s not the law – I love that, or even working on my LLM – I’m one of that rare breed who enjoys studying, and writing papers. I can lose myself in my work sometimes."  
  
"Me too." Mulder grinned. "It’s such a good feeling isn’t it? To be completely wrapped up in something so absorbing that you lose track of the time."  
  
"That’s it – that’s how I feel." The stranger laughed, showing those perfect white teeth to perfection. He had tanned skin – a much darker shade than Mulder’s pale flesh, and it suited him. His red shirt showed off a pair of broad shoulders. Mulder wanted to peel that shirt away and see what lay beneath. He was both titillated and thrilled by this thought. He had been attracted to other men before, but had been too shy, and too scared to do anything about it. Besides, he’d had girlfriends, and found them attractive as well. He was confused.  
  
"I love my job, but the people I work for are just vultures. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised but…"  
  
"Go on." Mulder dipped his cookie into his coffee and then crammed the whole sopping mass into his mouth. His new friend made a face. "Sorry," Mulder mumbled, flushing, and berating himself for looking like such an immature ass in front of this smart older guy.  
  
"S’okay – I knew you were hungry!" The other man laughed. "I went into the law because I wanted to be a part of it, part of the fabric of it. I guess, I dunno, would it sound hopelessly idealistic if I said that I wanted to do some good?"  
  
No, it wouldn’t, Mulder thought to himself. It would just make you even more perfect than you already are. He gazed at the man, lost in a more powerful sense of attraction than he’d ever felt.  
  
"Maybe you should try a different career path?" Mulder suggested. "Just because you have a law degree doesn’t mean that you have to stay in private practice."  
  
"No. You’re right. Look, can I buy you another coffee? I’m, uh, enjoying our conversation."  
  
"Me too." Mulder grinned, feeling giddy, and stupid, his cock hardening in his pants. He reached out to hand the other man his cup, and their fingers touched. Mulder felt as if an electric current had run between them, and inhaled sharply. The other man stared at him, his face surprised, and a little shocked. "We could skip the coffee," Mulder said. "It’s a nice day – too nice for you to be stuck in here with your head buried in those books." He knew he was making a pass at the other man, but he didn’t care. It felt right. It felt good.  
  
"Where did you go?" Laurence’s voice broke into his reverie.  
  
"Just wandering through the park. We talked and talked. I did find him attractive, but it was more that he understood me - he listened to me. I told him about Oxford, about my life…I even told him I was attracted to him. He had very dark eyes. Very quiet, very solemn. I thought he’d hit me when I told him that, but he just smiled, and he touched my hand and said he felt the same. I asked him if he had an apartment, and he said he did, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to just…" Mulder shrugged.  
  
"Fuck and run," Laurence supplied.  
  
"Something like that. Not that he wanted any kind of commitment, just that it was too soon. He was as confused as I was. He never spoke about it but I always felt that there was something that had delayed his normal development. Something bigger than his sexuality. Something that haunted him. Later…well, later…" Mulder shrugged. "I did understand later but he didn’t tell me then."  
  
"You slept with him though?" Laurence pressed. "What did that feel like? Tell me about the first time, and keep stroking."  
  
His finger slid in and out of Mulder’s anus, with a relentless sawing motion, and whenever Mulder went quiet the whip would lash down on his inner thigh. Mulder slid his hand along his cock again, remembering…  
  
"We met again. He took me to the theater. I didn’t have enough money to pay for the ticket but he didn’t make a big deal about that. He told me that when I’d made my fortune I could take him out, but until then he was happy to buy me meals. I liked that – it made it sound as if we’d be together for years."  
  
"The first time, please, Mulder, or I’ll become impatient," his captor chided, thwacking the whip down again. Mulder felt tears of pain spring involuntarily into his eyes. He didn’t want to remember this. He’d spent a lifetime not remembering this.  
  
"It was in his apartment. We had gone back there to talk after watching a game. Just to talk. We talked a lot. Or… at least I talked. He was quieter…He was practically silent that evening. He just watched me out of those dark eyes and when I finally shut up I knew I had to kiss him so I did. He was still beneath me, but he didn’t move away. The attraction was so strong you could smell it, taste it…it hung in the air. He ran his fingers through my hair, and I unbuttoned his shirt. It was the same red one he’d worn when we met in the bookstore. Once I started I went crazy. I had to be close to him. I had to…" Mulder closed his eyes, remembering revealing inch after inch of tanned, toned flesh. He remembered a heady smell that aroused him, sweat mingled with aftershave. He had sunk to his knees in front of the other man, unzipped his fly, and released a thick, swelling cock. He had drunk from that cock, like taking life itself into him. His own cock had been hard in his pants as he sucked. His lover had had his hands in his hair and had been whispering something, just words, terms of endearment, encouragement.  
  
"That’s good." The finger in his anus thrust back and forth, and he rocked in time to the motion. His own cock was hard in his lubed hand, and he was pumping it. "He still turns you on. Even after all this time. You should have allowed yourself to masturbate to this memory before," Laurence told him. "What happened next?"  
  
"He came in my throat…" Mulder arched his neck as much as his bonds would allow. His hard cock was aching with need. "And then he pulled me on his lap, and kissed me. He was very gentle, very loving, very big…he held me. Then he put his hands into my pants, and stroked me. Softly, then harder…" Mulder stroked himself, lost in the memory. "I was looking in his eyes the whole time as he stroked, over and over again, pumping me until I came over his hand…Oh shit…" Mulder felt warm come spurt over his fingers.  
  
"Very good." Laurence removed his own finger from Mulder’s ass. "You see, Mulder. I can give you pleasure, as well as pain. I can command your body to do as I please. I can make you come when you can’t even manage it for yourself."  
  
"Fuck you," Mulder said without conviction or interest, still lost in a time 18 years ago, his head resting on a broad shoulder, his neck being stroked by a large hand.  
  
"I’m going to clean you up."  
  
Mulder gasped as a wet washcloth descended on his cock, and wiped away his own spilled semen, slowly caressing him in the process, and his spent cock gave a twitch of interest. "He isn’t the only one who can give you pleasure, Mulder. I can too. You’ll come for me too, Mulder, in time."  
  
"No," Mulder said in a dull voice.  
  
"Yes. You already did in a way. Now, I’m going to leave you here to rest. One more thing before I go, Mulder. What was his name?"  
  
Mulder lay looking into the dark, and made no reply.  
  
"I’ll make you tell me," Laurence promised. Mulder heard the sound of a latex glove being removed from his captor’s hand, and dropped into something – probably a bowl. "Before we’re through. You’ll tell me everything before long. You’ll be pleased to tell me."  
  
Mulder tried not to listen. He tried to hold on to the memory of those arms holding him, those dark eyes making love to him. Laurence re-tied his hand, then turned his head, forced open his lips, inserted his tongue again, and explored his captive's mouth for endless long, humiliating minutes, his thin fingers digging into Mulder’s jaw, keeping his mouth open. When he released him, Mulder turned his face away, and retched from the stink of his captor’s unfamiliar breath.  
  
"Sweet dreams, dear boy," Laurence chuckled, as his soft footfalls faded towards the door. "Sweet dreams."  
  
Mulder lay in the dark staring into the void of his own blindfold. This small strip of fabric focused his every thought inwards. He could smell his lover, could feel his lover’s warm breath on his neck and he could have wept for what might have been, for what should have been, and for the knowledge, so hard won in this dark, bitter place, that it was all he had ever wanted. Why hadn’t he fought for it at the time? And why had he never tried to win it back since? Mulder started to hum, a mindless tune, lost in time. There was no part of his body that didn’t ache, no part that hadn’t been violated and abused. He was trapped inside a battered reminder that he was all too human, just frail flesh and blood at the end of the day. He cursed himself for what he had given away, and the insights into his soul and psyche that he had surrendered to his torturer without even meaning to. The other man had pounced upon even the smallest word or phrase, and Mulder, half out of his mind with pain, and at a significant disadvantage in this battle of wits, couldn’t keep up. He had to though. If he didn’t he was lost. He had to find a way to fight back, a way to hold on to his own sanity, because if he didn’t…if he didn’t he’d be broken, as so many others had been broken by this man in this room. Mulder’s chest heaved as his own misery overwhelmed him. He had to fight, and if that meant making compromises then he had to make them. What was it his high school boxing coach had told him – you’re too skinny to box hard, so you've got to box clever instead. That was what he had to do, if only he didn’t hurt so much. If only he wasn’t so tired…  
  
He tried to marshal the last remnants of his fading thought processes to go over the few moments of triumph he’d had during his discourse with Laurence so far. There had been the cravat – he had been close to something there, not quite accurate, but close. Why had Laurence chosen to show off that bruise today? Surely it should have been something he was annoyed about, even ashamed of – one of his victims getting the upper hand, if only for a second; one of them inflicting real harm on him when it was supposed to be the other way around. So why tie his cravat so loose as to reveal the bruise, as if it were a trophy that he was proud of? Then there had been the second moment, when he’d told Laurence that if he succeeded than Mulder would just be another broken victim, testament to his skill, but no longer of interest. That had unsettled the other man – why? Mulder willed his intuition to work. He rarely found the answers when he tried too hard; they came to him when he was almost out of focus, taking an overview, allowing his mind to roam from one disjointed fact or theory to another. Now he was afraid his intuitive skills had left him for good. He was in too much pain, and it was too important – under that kind of pressure it was hardly surprising that his mind just went blank. Mulder closed his eyes, and started to hum again. His head was resting on a man’s chest, clad in a red shirt. He was happy but very tired.  
  
"It’s all right to sleep," his lover said. "You’re worn out. Sleep, Fox. Sleep."  
  
"Need to find an answer," he murmured.  
  
"Not now. Not when you’re so tired. Go to sleep. I’ll watch over you." A large, gentle hand tangled in his hair, soothing and loving him.  
  
"I have to eat and drink. I have to stay warm." He had a memory of falling to the floor, shaking, suffering from a combination of shock and hypothermia, and shuddered as he remembered bony hands massaging his flesh back to life.  
  
"Of course you do," his lover said.  
  
"Even if that means moving close to him…sitting next to him." Mulder wanted to retch, but he was too tired to do even that. He swallowed hard instead.  
  
"That’s fine," his lover whispered.  
  
"No, not fine…here, when I can’t stop him touching me, I have no choice. But to go, willingly…to allow him to pet me in exchange for warmth…"  
  
"Doesn’t matter," his lover said. His lover’s chest was large and warm under his head.  
  
"Love you," Mulder slurred, desolate, the pain inside like a knife slicing through his chest from the inside out.  
  
"Sleep," his lover ordered softly.  
  
Unable to fight it any more Mulder nestled close, and did just that.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Charles pays me a visit later that afternoon. I have Emilia standing by but for the first time ever in our long acquaintance, it would seem that it is me he has come to visit and not any of the trainees. He looks a little the worse for wear – almost as if he’s been drinking as he’s ushered into my salon. I don’t like alcohol – I never touch the stuff myself. It dulls the senses and turns otherwise interesting, lively people into rambling idiots – or worse, self-pitying, morose bores. Charles can handle his liquor well but even so it’s obvious that he’s in a bad mood. I offer him a cigarette from my silver case, which he takes. I light it for him with a matching silver lighter, and he takes a drag as if he’s a drowning man. I dislike tobacco as well. It fills the body with pollution, just like all those cars outside in the street, spewing their filth into our lungs. It makes me shudder.  
  
"What can I do for you, Charles?" I ask him smoothly. He stares into the fire moodily. His shirt is undone at the collar, and his tie is slightly askew.  
  
"I want to know how you're progressing with Mulder," he says bluntly. I raise an eyebrow in surprise.  
  
"I’ve only had him for a couple of days. Progress is…satisfactory." I incline my head.  
  
"Is he broken yet?" He asks eagerly, and I’m afraid I laugh out loud. He turns his head to stare at me, unblinking, like a snake considering his prey, and my laugh dries in my throat. I must never forget what a very dangerous man he is.  
  
"No, of course not, Charles," I say in a conciliatory tone. "It can take days or even weeks to break someone – months sometimes, in the case of your delightful assistant for example."  
  
"Months!" He snaps. "We don’t have months. I don’t think you understand how dangerous this situation is, Laurence."  
  
"I wasn’t made aware of any danger," I reply in a soft voice. "What are you referring to, Charles?"  
  
"Mulder is an FBI agent – they’ll pull out all the stops looking for him. You might not have long, leisurely months to spend with him. He’s different – you knew that."  
  
"Yes I did. All the same I wasn’t made aware of any time limit when you gave him to me. You mentioned he had a week’s vacation…and he wouldn’t be missed until after then."  
  
"That’s right."  
  
"And I hardly think that anyone, not even the FBI, will dare to question the Syndicate – I thought you had people in place in high offices to prevent just that."  
  
"We do," Charles snaps. "But Mulder has friends, people who won’t take our orders. Agent Scully and Assistant Director Skinner are unlikely to just give up on him, even if ordered by the Director himself."  
  
"Ah. They’re fond of him." I can understand that. He’s very easy to be fond of. I frown, a thought occurring to me. "Agent Scully I can understand – she’s his partner and I’ve heard that these police people become very attached to their partners. It’s understandable really, working out in the field in life or death situations must make people become very close. However, Assistant Director Skinner is Mulder’s boss, isn’t he? Explain to me why he would risk his career for his subordinate."  
  
"I don’t know, but he’s done it before," Charles replies in an annoyed tone. "When I first met him I thought he was going to be easy to sit on – he’s a bureaucrat, with ambitions to climb the greasy pole. Unfortunately he showed an irritating tendency to want to think for himself."  
  
"Most regrettable," I murmur, pouring myself a glass of water and pondering this.  
  
"All this is in the files I gave you." Charles waves his hand in the direction of my desk, where Mulder’s files are still stacked, unread. I shrug, and take a sip of my drink. I have no intention of explaining the intricacies of my training techniques to this man. "How is he doing?" Charles asks unexpectedly. I raise an eyebrow. "Is he resisting?"  
  
Charles edges forward eagerly, his eyes alight with curiosity. He is not an unattractive man – in his youth I can imagine he was very attractive indeed. He’s very tall, very focused…in fact he reminds me a little of the man I have tied up in the Delivery Room right now. Both committed to their causes, both sharply intelligent, and there is even a certain similarity of looks. How intriguing. I gaze at Charles for a while, wondering what has been unsaid, and then resolve that whether I like it or not, those files might make interesting reading – but for entirely different reasons than he imagines.  
  
"Resisting? Yes, in his own way," I reply to his question, my mind still worrying away at this new little problem.  
  
"What the hell does that mean?" Charles asks. He isn’t a man who explodes. He just goes very quiet, and even more dangerous, like a snake about to strike its prey.  
  
"It means that he’s different. I knew he would be and he is. His idea of resistance is to try to out-think me, to try not to give too much away."  
  
"But he tried to escape?" Charles is looking at the bruise on my neck, and that gives me a flood of the most delicious warmth. I press my fingertips gingerly to the surface of the mark, surprised by how much I enjoy displaying it to him.  
  
"Yes, he made a futile little attempt to hold me hostage here. It failed, needless to say."  
  
"But he did try – he struggled, he kicked, and fought?" Charles’s interest in knowing the details is almost sickening. His eyes are glowing, and he’s utterly captivated by the notion of Fox Mulder resisting his breaking.  
  
"Yes." I nod pleasantly. It would take too long to explain the intricacies of it all to him. I don’t think he really has the kind of mind that would understand.  
  
"I’d like to see him," he says, taking the wind out of my sails completely.  
  
"I couldn’t allow that. The breaking process is very finely tuned and balanced. During this time it’s important that I’m his main focus and point of contact – I wouldn’t want him distracted."  
  
"I don’t want to talk to him," Charles says impatiently. "I want to see him - just to see him." He sounds very desperate. I wonder why he wants to see Mulder stretched out, naked, in pain. It’s intriguing.  
  
"Very well. I believe he’s sleeping right now. We’ll go down to the Observation Room and you can look at him."  
  
Charles nods, and takes another deep drag on his cigarette, as if it’s some kind of lifeline. I get to my feet and call ahead to the Observation Room that they should expect us. Then I open the door and usher Charles through, with a polite, false smile on my face. I’m rendered uneasy by this. It’s unexpected, and even apart from that this is my show. None of the Elite has ever interfered before, although there was that one occasion, when James delivered that young lady he was so enamored of, the one who’d refused his advances. Breaking her was delightful, but his constant need to know when she’d be ready was wearying. I think he was a little disconcerted when he did finally get to enjoy her, by how easily she also went to all the other Syndicate members. That’s the downside of the breaking process, of course. He wanted her to be broken just for him – and I could have done that, but it would have been a misuse of Syndicate facilities. All the trainees are shared – that’s one of the ways of avoiding petty jealousies and squabbles of the kind that can ruin even the most self-disciplined of organizations.  
  
Charles doesn’t say a word during our walk to the basement, but his shoulders are more hunched than usual. I really wish he’d straighten up, and walk tall and proud – I hate slovenliness, and bearing is so important to the impression a person makes. I’ve often had to drum that message home to my newly broken trainees. We reach the Observation Room and I unlock the door – it’s always kept locked, even when it’s occupied. The dutyman inside gets to his feet and stands at attention, and Charles and I take up residence in the two armchairs.  
  
"How is he?" I ask the dutyman. He shrugs.  
  
"Talking to himself mainly, and humming," he says.  
  
"Oh really? Anything interesting?" I glance through the window but the Delivery Room is in darkness and I can just barely make out the outline of Mulder’s body on the table.  
  
"The humming or the talking?" The dutyman asks nervously. They do so hate riling me up, and they know how very precise I am.  
  
"Either," I chuckle.  
  
"Well, the talking was mostly something about wanting to sleep. Sounded like he was having an argument with himself about it. The humming was driving me crazy so I’m glad he won the sleep argument," he grins.  
  
"How amusing," I glance at Charles and smile.  
  
"I can’t see him," Charles says in a low, urgent tone. He isn’t like me. He doesn’t understand that it’s more interesting to have a context, which is why I asked the dutyman for an update before viewing Mulder.  
  
"We’ll turn the lights up."  
  
I reach out and slide a switch on the control panel, and the lights in the Delivery Room brighten. Not too much – I’d prefer not to wake him if he is sleeping, and even beneath the blindfold he might sense a change in the lighting. Finally he’s revealed in all his glory. Charles takes a sharp intake of breath. Mulder is lying where I left him – he has no choice because he’s tied too tightly to move. His open legs are directly in front of us, the flesh of his inner thighs looking particularly raw and red but otherwise he’s fairly unmarked from this angle since he’s lying on his back.  
  
"What’s been done to him?" Charles asks in a low, strangulated tone.  
  
"Well he’s been penetrated of course. Several times. And beaten."  
  
"On his thighs?" Charles looks a little green around the gills.  
  
"Yes. It’s a very painful area. He’s in considerable pain right now. It’s necessary at the beginning."  
  
"What else?" Charles asks.  
  
"Nothing else," I reply in surprise. What on earth was he expecting? "He and I have had some cozy fireside chats though. He’s a very interesting man."  
  
"What has he told you?" Charles fumbles in his pocket for a cigarette, and I get there first, offering him my little silver case.  
  
"A good deal – but we’ve only just begun. He has a lot more to say."  
  
"Does he speak of his mother at all?" Charles asks. What an intriguing question. I glance at him, framed as he is in the outline of cigarette smoke.  
  
"Not to any great extent yet. He will. Is there anything in particular I should be asking?" I put my head to one side and consider him. He swallows, and shakes his head.  
  
"No. I just wondered. What about his father?" It was just a little too casual, a little too throwaway, the inflection a little too high. It’s the one question he has wanted to ask since arriving here, and he’s just dropped it in where he thought I wouldn’t notice it, but I always notice. It’s my job.  
  
"No, although I sense something there." I sit back and watch him expectantly.  
  
"I knew his father. Bill Mulder…" His voice trails off. "A good man. One of our best."  
  
"Which is why you sent your assistant to kill him," I smile. He looks at me sharply.  
  
"Oh, Alex told me when he was last here. He told me everything. You did send him for Remedial Treatment after all, and it’s necessary to get them to talk during such sessions to see where their training might have gone wrong. You know that nothing goes beyond these four walls. I’m the soul of discretion."  
  
"Yes, you are," he mutters, stubbing out his cigarette as if he wishes the ashtray was my face. "Bill Mulder was having second thoughts. He was becoming a danger to all of us. It was necessary."  
  
"You don’t have to explain anything to me." I shrug. "I only concern myself with my recruits and trainees – I leave the important work to people like you, Charles, people who understand and are prepared to make the tough choices and perform the hard tasks so that I don’t have to."  
  
He gives a slight grunt.  
  
"Did Mulder have an easy relationship with his father?" I ask, offering him another cigarette. He takes it, and lights it. Only an expert would notice the slight shaking of his hand as he looks at the man lying motionless on the table in the next room, like a dead body on a slab, his genitalia and ass so humiliatingly on display. I am an expert.  
  
"No. They weren’t close. I used to visit the family…Bill was besotted with his daughter. She was a real daddy’s girl. Mulder wasn’t exactly…" He shrugs, and his eyes narrow. "I don’t think Bill really knew what to make of his son. His little girl, Samantha, was the spitting image of him; very dark hair, the same shaped face. Mulder, well, he always was different. You’ve spoken to him. You know how he can be."  
  
"I’m finding him delightful. You know…" I'm taking a wild guess, feeling a spark of excitement running through my veins. "I’m surprised his father didn’t appreciate him. He’s a fine man. You’d think any man would be proud to have such a son."  
  
There it is. Just a slight tautening of his jaw, and a flick of his finger on the cigarette he is clutching. He makes no reply, but his expression is bleak. Ash builds up on the cigarette as he sits motionless, gazing at the violated young man in the next room. I smile to myself. Oh, how interesting. What kind of man would offer up his own son to this kind of torture? And you have the audacity to ask me how I sleep at night, Charles? I wonder at his motivation. I had already surmised that he had invested a great deal of himself in Mulder’s breaking process. He’s identified himself with his son, and one part of him wishes to be proud of the boy’s defiance. He likes to think that comes from him – that his son has inherited his own strength. Another part of him wants the boy to be broken, and made to show the deference and respect to his father that Charles could never claim by right of birth because, for whatever reason, he could not tell the boy the true nature of his parentage. This way he gets the respect without the paternal obligations that go with it. This is a darker and more complex manifestation of what I call 'old stag' syndrome. The young stag has locked horns with his father, and the older combatant refuses to give way. One of them must emerge the victor, and Charles is not a man who likes to lose – even to the extent of offering his boy up to this. Ah, the human heart in all its glorious complexity is a wondrous thing indeed!  
  
Mulder is silent. He might very well be sleeping, or dozing at least – perhaps dreaming of his handsome young lawyer of so many years ago. I must say that whole love affair intrigues me. In particular the difficulty he has in using the memory to masturbate. As he said, the affair was a long time ago, so why should it be so painful in the here and now? I could understand it if the object of his affection was still around, serving as a reminder of what he had once had but which was now forever out of reach…I can understand why that would make it painful…hmm. I can see more work must be done on this topic.  
  
"I want you to speed the process up." Charles gets to his feet, signaling that the meeting is drawing to an end, and I shadow his movement, rising myself. "I want him broken quickly." He looks away from the sight in the Delivery Room. I think he might even be a little sickened by what he’s done. He’s like a small boy with an insect that he thought would be fun to kill – only the insect keeps on crawling, refusing to die, and now instead of being intrigued by the process, he just wants it over so that it doesn’t keep reminding him what a bastard he is.  
  
"I can’t." I shrug. "It takes as long as it takes. I can’t speed it up."  
  
His face twists angrily, but he does at least accept that I’m telling him the truth. "The other members of the Elite wish to…" He pauses, his Adam's apple betraying an inner conflict, "they want him brought to our offices to entertain. They want him available. Several of them have expressed an interest – he’s pissed many of them off over the years."  
  
It’s common practice for a new trainee to be sent over to the Syndicate’s main building for recreational purposes. It’s an important part of their training to be introduced to their duties in such an environment. When the Syndicate is having a big meeting I’ll often send over as many as two dozen. When the talking is over, the Elite like to unwind in a willing mouth, pussy, or ass. There are usually two or three trainees over there at any one time just to be on hand should one of the Elite require some sexual relief. They mainly prefer to visit here of course, where they can be assured good food, a private room, and their pick of the trainees on offer, but I make sure there’s always at least one boy and one girl over at the main building for executive stress relief, day and night. That’s trainees though – not unbroken recruits. The latter can’t be trusted out of my immediate supervision at any point during the breaking process.  
  
"I’ll bring him when he’s broken."  
  
"They might not be prepared to wait," Charles says implacably in that slow drawl.  
  
"If I send him before then his responses might be…unpredictable. We might be able to get him to the stage where he at least doesn’t fight, but if he isn’t broken it’s unlikely he’ll collude to the extent of giving pleasure without my presence. He’ll require constant threats and encouragement and I’m the only one he’ll respond to before he’s broken."  
  
"Then you can bring him," Charles orders imperiously, a glint of malice in those silvery hazel eyes. He grins, nastily, clearly having got the measure of me, then gestures impatiently to the dutyman to unlock the door, and, with one last glance at his son, sweeps out of the room. I remain behind, watching his back as he goes, my heart plummeting to my shoes.  
  
Damn him! I clench my fists, and feel my chest tighten. It’s all I can do to slump back into the armchair in order to regain my composure. A trip outside…how I hate going outside. I glance at the man sprawled out on the table in the other room. It would seem that the stakes in our little game have been raised, and he doesn’t even realize it. Poor boy. Poor dear boy. If I’m to avoid a trip away from the salon then I must break him and send him alone. If I cannot, then I will have no choice but to accompany him out into the big bad world. How extremely unpleasant for all concerned.  
  
It is impossible for me to take my afternoon nap in the circumstances, and with the game altered thus I decide I might as well pile on some more pressure. It’s a little less calculated than I had hoped for, but he won’t know that. I nod to the dutyman to continue his observation, and unlock the door to the Delivery Room. Mulder must be asleep because he makes no move. I cross over to where he is lying and gaze at him for a while. He looks so very young when he’s asleep. Even bound, his body has a kind of exotic grace. I have more or less dispensed with the cock cage - he shows little sign of becoming aroused without considerable coercion. It's a problem we'll work on together, and I'm sure that the cock cage will come in useful again when we release his inhibitions. I unfasten his blindfold but he doesn’t wake. He’s exhausted, poor lamb. Looking at him now, I wonder that I didn’t realize earlier who his father is. He looks very much like Charles. I’m almost certain that he doesn’t know the true nature of his parentage as well, which gives me an important weapon to hold over him and which might well speed the breaking. Damn, but I wanted to go slowly! I wanted to break him with infinite care, and attention. I wanted to give him rest, and time, wanted to savor the full brilliance of his sparkling mind, but now I have been robbed of that. However, there still may be more time than Charles imagines. I cannot believe that this Skinner will really have the audacity to beard the dragon in his own lair, so to speak. Even if he suspects our involvement in Mulder’s abduction, he will be stonewalled at every turn, and fed enough misinformation to keep him searching for months. We’re good at that. No, this unnecessary haste merely boils down to certain members of the Elite being desperate to get their hands on Mulder’s fine ass, and while I can both understand and sympathize with that, they’ll find it a lot more enjoyable to pump into a willing, acquiescent, subdued body than one that is spitting and fighting them all the way – especially when that body belongs to one of their oldest enemies. Short sighted idiots! It will be all the sweeter to drink from a submissive cup and know that a thorn in their side has been well and truly plucked. Well, I will just have to do the best I can.  
  
I stroke Mulder’s face lovingly until he comes to, blearily, and blinks at me.  
  
"Wha…?" He screws up his eyes.  
  
"Time to wake up, dear boy," I whisper softly.  
  
"You said you’d let me sleep," he moans accusingly. "You promised. You said you’d let me sleep."  
  
"And I have. You’ve had three hours. That’s more than enough." I stroke his face again, my other hand fondling his nipples, watching as the stimulus brings him fully awake.  
  
"Need more," he mutters petulantly.  
  
"More isn’t on offer." I fasten his hands to his belt, attach the chain to it, and then release him from the table and drag him to his feet. He’s slow, a dead weight on the end of the chain, and in pain from the chafing of his thighs as he tries to walk. He also has a thick layer of stubble on his chin, which really is most unattractive. He smells a little as well.  
  
"I’m going to give you a choice. A cold hose down here, or a nice warm bath with me - which would you prefer?" I ask him.  
  
"Oh, decisions, decisions," he says in a mocking tone. "You know what, old man, I think I’ll go for the cold hose down."  
  
Such delicious defiance! I reach for his whip, and his eyes widen. It’s the work of a few minutes to have him writhing and sobbing on the floor under the lash.  
  
"Let’s try again shall we?" I crouch down beside him, and pick up the chain again. "The cold hose down, or the warm bath? If you choose the former I’ll be extremely rough, if the latter then very gentle. If you choose the latter I’ll also dress your sores, and apply cream. You’ll be allowed a painkiller. If you opt for the cold hose down you will receive none of these. If you choose the bath, I’ll get in with you, naked, and I’ll play with you – you’ll submit with every indication of acquiescence and pleasure. What is your choice?"  
  
"The hose," he says immediately, his expressive hazel eyes never leaving my face. "I’m not very good at acting. I don’t think I could feign the degree of ‘acquiescence and pleasure’ that you require."  
  
"You’ll soon learn," I tell him, bending him roughly over the table, and tying him down where he stands. A cursory examination reveals that he’s healing inside. I unhook the hose and check that the temperature is cold before spraying him with it, dousing his head deliberately in the flow so that he can barely breathe. He’s panting and gasping before I turn the hose on his body, and he makes whimpering noises as I spray the water over his sore flesh. Finally I stick the nozzle into his anus, holding it there, so he cries out and struggles against me. When I finish he tries to squat, but can’t because he’s tied. I leave him shivering and tied over the table, and fetch the pot, guiding him onto it. He’s never seen me watching him urinate and defecate before, and his skin is flushed but he has no choice but to obey the needs of his body. I stand over him the entire time, much to his obvious chagrin.  
  
As soon as he’s done, I praise him for his performance, and pet him briefly as a reward, before I tie him to the bar, and apply shaving foam to his face. I shave him very slowly and carefully, holding his head as I work. He looks at the razor, and I know he’s considering jerking his head and trying to sever an artery on the blade, but he isn’t suicidal just yet; it’s clear from the expression in his eyes that he’s decided to save that thought for another, more desperate time. When he’s been cleanly shaved, I hose him again, front and back, all over his body and face, with the spray set on ‘high’. This hits him hard, and if I hold the hose in the same place for long enough it hurts – especially where he has been whipped. I go slowly, drawing out the agony, and by the time I’ve finished, the shower has taken an hour from beginning to end, and his teeth are chattering, his lips tinged a pale blue. He’s hanging by his wrists from the bar, his legs lifeless.  
  
"Next time, maybe you’ll see the wisdom of choosing the bath," I tell him harshly, taking a fistful of his hair, drawing his head back and kissing his lips savagely, biting down on the one I opened earlier until I taste blood. I release him with a nonchalant toss of his head and it flops back and then forwards, and hangs down between his shoulders. I circle him, enjoying the view. He’s very pale, and the red marks of the whipping stand out on his back and buttocks, and on the inside of his thighs. Poor dear boy; the bath would have been so much more fun.  
  
I pick up the whip again, and he regards me with wide-eyed apprehension. I smash it against his chest, and he screams, then curses himself for his uninhibited response, and tries to regain his composure. A whipping on wet skin is always particularly painful. I can see that he’s shocked that I’m whipping the front of his body, but there’s no part of him that I won’t whip, as he’ll find out in time.  
  
"You seem angry, Laurence," he says, in that drawling, almost inflectionless voice. Amazing how like Charles he can be. "Either you must have really been looking forward to that bath or someone else has pissed you off. I don’t think I’ve done anything to make you this angry."  
  
I pause in my next stroke, and give it some consideration. Is that true? Have I allowed Charles to rile me to the extent where I’m no longer thinking, coolly or rationally? No, of course not. I’m a professional, and he’s just one more soul to be broken.  
  
"On the contrary, Mulder. I’m simply applying what it is necessary for you to receive. There’s no emotion involved – if anything I’m a little bored, but it’s in your best interests to experience the lash as frequently as possible, so it’s a tedious little duty that I have no choice but to perform."  
  
"Oh please, don’t put yourself out on my account," he says, and I smile, and raise the whip, bringing it down hard across the front of his thighs. His scream is music to my ears.  
  
"Oh, it’s no trouble," I murmur, soothing him with one hand as I draw back with the other to deliver the next stroke. "No trouble at all."  
  
It’s a harsh whipping. He refused my request to bathe, but I’m determined to make him subdued, biddable, and quiescent for our tete a tete in the salon. He’s gasping for air by the time I’m done, tears running down his face.  
  
"Oh dear. You’re all sweaty again. Time for another shower I think." I lift the hose and spray him again until he’s cooled down, and then leave him hanging there. "You'll be escorted to the salon shortly," I inform him. "You might like to give some thought to how co-operative you intend to be. If you’re not talkative then I’ll bring you straight back down and whip you again. Think about it. Personally I think you’re in no condition to take another whipping, but it’s entirely your choice."  
  
"You’re too kind, Laurence. A total gentleman," he murmurs, his defiance becoming more and more uninhibited as the pain levels increase. This is often the case – at first people think they can hide their stubbornness, but when you take them down to their basic core, it’s clear what is an act, and what is real. He is really digging his heels in – and he’s hanging on to his self-esteem by a thread.  
  
"I am kind, dear boy, very kind, and please do try and remember to call me ‘sir’. It will be so much easier for you if you do."  
  
The slap of my hand across his jaw is much more intimate than the whip. I enjoy it so much that I slap him again, higher up, across the cheekbone, and his skin reddens most pleasingly, splitting a little under the force of the blow. I draw his sopping, freezing body close, and tenderly kiss the marks I’ve just made, and then I leave him hanging there, and wander along to the kitchens to see what the chef has prepared. All this physical exertion has made me a little peckish.  
  
I retire to my lair with a plate of food, and flick idly through Mulder’s files. I don’t want to know everything, just a few bits and pieces. Charles’s visit has rather intrigued me. I have the dutymen bring Mulder up a couple of hours later. He’s clearly waning – they untie him, remove his blindfold, and drop him in the middle of the room, where he sinks to his knees, unable to stand. One of his eyes is half closed from swelling caused by my blow to his upper cheek – I hadn’t realized I’d hit him so hard but there’s a nasty bruise, and a cut that’s oozing blood. I must say that it gives him a very attractive quality; like a boxer who has been hurt in a fight. I like that look.  
  
"Bruises suit you, Mulder," I murmur, placing one finger under his chin and lifting his head to view them more clearly. I turn his face to the light and he flinches as I run a finger over the bruise. "See what defiance gets you?" I ask him but he has no response. He’s shivering badly, his body going into shock from cold and the beating. "Where do you want to sit for our chat?" I inquire. "Here, beside me, or in your usual chair." He looks at me from behind that half closed eye, and then, slowly, with as much dignity as he can muster, he gets up and walks pointedly to the chair.  
  
"I’d rather sit with a boa constrictor," he says, as if the point needed any further laboring. "Sir."  
  
I can’t help but laugh out loud. This is a Mulder who is very easy to love. I said that pain peels back the layers, and takes us to our most basic selves. And Mulder, at his most basic, is stubborn, smart, and wildly independent. He’s also self-destructive.  
  
"Please do eat - the food is delicious. The chef has quite excelled himself," I inform him, nodding at the bowl of soup and slices of bread beside his chair.  
  
"What is this? Lunch? Supper?" he asks. He has no idea what time it is so I could easily lie to him, and I expect I will at some point, but not at this moment in time.  
  
"Supper," I tell him with a smile.  
  
It’s late in the evening, and it’s been a long, and tiring day, but now that the pressure is on I see no reason to let up on him. I might manage a breakthrough by hounding him for the next few hours. He looks at the soup for a moment, and then slowly lifts the bowl, and sniffs it.  
  
"Leek and potato. Delicious." I take a spoonful myself, blowing on it to cool it down.  
  
He picks up a slice of bread and dunks it eagerly into the soup, and then eats. He’s clearly made up his mind not to starve himself as promised yesterday. That’s a very wise decision. I do hate it when my recruits opt for hunger strikes. If they’re stubborn enough it can take all the fun out of breaking them as it becomes a race against time whether I break them first or they faint away from malnutrition. Of course once they’re broken they eat, without complaint. I even served up one recruit’s most hated foods every mealtime for a week and ordered her to eat them just to reinforce the message of her breaking. It was a singularly successful strategy. She ate without complaint, and finished everything I gave her, even though she looked a little ill afterwards, and retched once or twice. Mulder eats, and you can almost see the soup visibly restoring his strength. He really is looking battered this evening, and his skin is almost translucently pale. The soup has warmed him a little but he’s still cold. The hairs on his skin are standing upright and he’s covered in goose bumps. If he continues to sit over at the far side of the room then it won’t be long before he starts to shiver, and his teeth start to chatter. That’s all to the good. I’ll have him sitting next to me before too long. I’m looking forward to it.  
  
"So, what do you want to talk about this evening?" I ask him.  
  
"How about sleep?" He offers facetiously. Sometimes I wonder if he’s learned what is and is not appropriate behavior in the salon.  
  
"You can sleep later. Now I want to talk. I was rather hoping for a nice long cozy session." I snuggle into the recesses of the couch, and watch him.  
  
"I feel as if I’ve been talking for days," he whispers. "What else is there to say?"  
  
"Oh, a great deal. We’ve hardly begun really."  
  
"How long have I been here?" The action of eating has opened the little cut on his lip, and a drop of blood drips into his soup. He stares at the tiny red droplet as it mingles with the yellow of the soup and finally dissipates.  
  
"Not as long as you think. Time loses meaning, doesn’t it? I expect it seems like several days to you. Maybe you even think that the week is up, and your friends will be searching for you soon, but I’m afraid there are several days yet before that happens."  
  
"My friends?" He moistens his lips with his tongue, and then picks up the soup-spoon and stirs his food.  
  
"Yes. You never did answer my question. Who do you want to rescue you? Agent Scully maybe? Or Assistant Director Skinner?" His head jerks up at that last question and I smile, blandly at him. His eyes flash with annoyance as he realizes that he’s given something away – but what?  
  
"Right now I’d settle for the superintendent of my apartment block showing up on a white horse," he parries. "Anything to get away from you, Laurence."  
  
"Tell me about your father." I shoot the question at him and watch his reaction to the unexpected path the conversation has taken.  
  
"What’s to tell? He and I weren’t close."  
  
"Why is that?"  
  
"I don’t know. He was busy. He had to work. He didn’t have much time for me." Mulder shrugs, endearingly.  
  
"But he had time for your sister, didn’t he?"  
  
Mulder stiffens, and his face is drawn with pain – emotional this time, not physical.  
  
"She was cute. Everyone had time for Sam."  
  
"Except you," I guess, accurately I suspect. He swallows hard, considering his answer, but I’ve touched a nerve.  
  
"I loved her," he whispers at last. He concentrates on his soup, as if he thinks he’s immune from questioning while he eats. He isn’t.  
  
"Yes but you resented her as well, didn’t you? You couldn’t figure out why your father loved her so much more than he seemed to love you."  
  
"That’s not true." His protest sounds false, and hollow.  
  
"No lies in this room please, Mulder, or I’ll draw this meeting to an end, take you back downstairs, and administer the punishment you know you deserve." He’s silent. "You do know you deserve punishment, don’t you, Mulder?"  
  
"For what?" He mutters sullenly, for all the world like a sulky teenager.  
  
"For so many things, beginning with the fact that you were unkind to your sister."  
  
"I wasn’t." He drops his head, and raises a spoonful of soup to his mouth, his fingers trembling.  
  
"Yes you were. You resented your father’s affection for her so you used to snipe at her when nobody was watching. Just little things. A word here or there to dent her confidence, a tug on her braids."  
  
"We squabbled. We were no different to most brothers and sisters." He shrugs, but I note that he’s unable to swallow the mouthful of soup pressed to his lips. The spoon just hangs there, quivering in time to his shaking fingers until most of the fluid has dropped back into the bowl.  
  
"But you were unhappy and you teased her more than most brothers would because of that fact," I tell him, sure of my ground. He rallies, and tries to sit up straight in his chair.  
  
"We were just normal kids. We argued occasionally." He slurps on his soup, and resumes eating, trying to cover the fact that my questions have unsettled him.  
  
"Your father was a cold man."  
  
"No." He gulps the soup down as if he’s desperate to get it into his body before I ask him something else that might distress him.  
  
"Not to your sister, or even your mother, but he was cold to you."  
  
"NO!" He bangs down his empty bowl with a thud, and the spoon goes flying into the air. We both watch it arc gracefully across the room and land by the fire.  
  
"You tried very hard to impress him. You always got the best grades at school, you studied hard, you were good at sports, but nothing ever made him proud, did it – nothing you did at least."  
  
A flicker of pain crosses over his face. He’s starting to shiver, as I predicted.  
  
"He didn’t love you, Mulder," I tell him. It’s very probably the truth. Bill Mulder must have known he was raising Charles’s son – for whatever reason. Samantha was almost certainly his own flesh and blood but my poor dear Fox was not.  
  
"He wasn’t very good at showing his emotions," Mulder corrects me in an unsteady voice. "Men of his generation – your generation," he adds pointedly, "generally aren’t very good at that. It doesn’t mean he didn’t love me."  
  
"Although he had no problem showing his affection for your sister," I point out.  
  
"She was a girl. It was easier for him," he mumbles, grasping for straws, and knowing it.  
  
"No, he just didn’t love you," I correct him.  
  
"Why wouldn’t he?" He asks. "I tried…very hard. Why wouldn’t he love me?"  
  
"I think you know the answer to that, Mulder," I tell him gently. He looks up at me, with one open hazel eye, and one half closed. He looks like some small woodland creature, shyly peeping out. His whole body seems to have shrunk under this line of questioning.  
  
"No, I don’t. But you clearly think you do," he whispers.  
  
"Yes, and I suspect you’ve wondered as well. You’re too smart not to have wondered. Did you ever ask your mother?"  
  
"Ask her what?" He snaps, clenching his fists.  
  
"Ah, I see you have. What was her reply? Did she tell you the name of your real father?"  
  
"He was my father. He was the man who brought me up. He took me out in the woods, showed me how to make camp fires."  
  
"He went through the motions. Maybe he was even fond of you. But you weren’t his son, and he didn’t love you."  
  
He bows his head, struggling with the tears, and shivering convulsively.  
  
"He was a good man. He tried to love you, but he failed."  
  
"No." His voice is a whisper.  
  
"Is that what attracted you to your lawyer? Are you drawn to father figures, Mulder?"  
  
"He wasn’t that much older than me. Not a father figure."  
  
"Come now. Semantics again. Your lawyer was older than you, and he had a good job. He had the aura of success that surrounded your own father. He was sure of himself, strong, and capable. You’ve told me about large hands, and a broad chest. You were attracted to his strength."  
  
"Not just that. He was a good person, and he loved me."  
  
"And that filled a void, didn’t it? He loved you in a way your father didn’t – couldn’t - because he wasn’t really your father."  
  
He’s trembling at full force now, his whole body shaking.  
  
"You’re cold; come and sit by the fire." I pat the couch next to me, and he gazes at me warily but his teeth are chattering, and he must know his condition will deteriorate if he doesn’t come close to the fire. "You can’t talk when you’re so cold, and if you can’t talk then we must go back downstairs," I tell him pointedly. He takes a ragged intake of breath, and weighs it up, agonizingly, in his mind. Finally, he gets up, and takes a step towards me, and then another. He’s slow – his legs are sore, and he’s weak from lack of sleep and food, to say nothing of the trauma his body has undergone these past few days. He staggers to the couch, and perches, gingerly, by the fire, pointedly not touching me.  
  
"You poor unloved boy. What a difficult childhood, growing up in such a house." I put my hand on his naked shoulder, and rub, tenderly. "How you must have longed for strong arms around you, for the comfort of a father’s love." He’s staring into the fire, soaking up the warmth, and his body is responding to my touch, the hard, tense muscles loosening as he stops shivering.  
  
"Don’t touch me," he says in a low, intense tone.  
  
"I’m afraid that if you sit here then you must tolerate me touching you," I tell him with a little laugh, gently stroking his hair. "Please, by all means return to your armchair if you wish though."  
  
"I’ll fucking hit you if you touch me," he snarls.  
  
"Well you could, but then my dutymen would be forced to overpower you, take you downstairs, and beat you senseless. I expect we’d have to penetrate you as well, as part of your punishment."  
  
He rests his head on his arms, not responding. "Silence isn’t allowed in here," I remind him softly. "Tell me about your sister."  
  
"I loved her." He raises his head and looks at me desperately, as if it’s important that I believe him.  
  
"I’m sure you did." I fondle his shoulder, tracing the line of a welt down to his waist. He gulps a sharp intake of breath but doesn’t protest. "But maybe you were just the teeniest bit pleased she was taken away from you? Maybe you thought that now your father would have to love you, with your sister out of the way."  
  
"No." Almost silent.  
  
"You were 12 years old. It would have been understandable. Was he angry with you that she had been taken? You were supposed to be looking after her I believe?"  
  
"Someone’s been doing his homework," he sneers, and his eyes flicker to the files on my desk. He has already surmised what they are.  
  
"You make a fascinating study. Quite the most fascinating study we’ve had in here since…" I smile to myself, remembering the joys of breaking Charles’s beautiful green-eyed assistant.  
  
"Since?" Mulder questions.  
  
"Since I broke Alex." I reach for my glass of water. "He was extremely enjoyable. Up until you he was the high point of my career."  
  
"Alex." He repeats the name blankly, and then some kind of recognition enters those hazel eyes. "Alex," he murmurs again. "You did this to Alex Krycek?"  
  
"You know him of course. He told me about you when he was last here. Yes, I broke him. He was very stubborn and almost distractingly beautiful when he suffered. He didn’t suffer quite as well as you though. You take suffering to sublime heights, dear boy."  
  
He sits, ruminating on this for a moment, while I place both my hands on his shoulders, and stroke them. He submits to this, so I take it a step further, and pull him back against my chest. His body is still cold, and although he’s stiff, he comes, unresisting. In fact, he surprises me by resting his head against my shoulder, and allowing me to pet him. I kiss the back of his neck.  
  
"There, see, that’s what you wanted. That’s what you needed," I croon, delighting in this new evidence of trust. He’s quite still beneath my hands.  
  
"Tell me about Alex," he asks in a low voice. It’s so good having him here like this that I don’t want to disturb him by returning the conversation to his father. I decide to indulge him for a moment or two, to lull him further into a sense of security with me.  
  
"Alex was barely 19 when he was first brought here. He was orphaned when he was 15 and lived rough on the streets for a while. There was nobody to miss him – he was ripe for the plucking."  
  
"Another virgin?" Mulder whispers.  
  
"Sadly, no. His years on the streets had mainly been spent in prostitution. He was such a spitfire." I chuckle at the memory.  
  
"Did you enjoy breaking him?" Mulder asks, his head heavy and relaxed on my shoulder.  
  
"Oh yes. I enjoyed it very much," I whisper, nuzzling his hair. "It took some time, and occasionally he is still returned to me for a little correction, which I'm always happy to give him. He's another lost soul who hasn’t been loved enough, just like you, Mulder. I was happy to welcome him into my heart, and take care of him. He was looking for a father figure just like you, in a way. A pair of strong arms to comfort, and hold him. Wouldn’t you like to be held, Mulder? To be comforted? I can do that for you. You’re tired, and you ache. I could soothe you. Wouldn’t you like that? Yes?" His eyes are hungry with need, and he struggles with himself for a moment. "There’s no pain here, in my arms. You can rest. Nobody will hurt you. You want peace don’t you, Mulder? You just want to be held, and loved, but you won’t let anybody do that for you. I could do it. Let me take care of you, dear boy. Come into my arms."  
  
"You won’t hurt me?" He asks in a whisper.  
  
"No, I’ll just hold you, and take care of you, the way your father couldn’t. Come on." I push him forward and he turns, and then slowly, and very deliberately, lies down, places his head on my lap, and looks up at me with an expression of absolute trust in those hazel eyes. It’s adorable. I wrap my arms around him and hug him close, delighting in the moment. His eyes are also misty with tears. It’s so beautiful I could stay this way forever.  
  
"How long did it take you to break Alex?" He asks.  
  
"A little while," I admit. "He was a very difficult boy – not in the same way you are. You’re just skittish, and your mind makes too many of your decisions. You should trust your heart more. Alex is the opposite. He roars from emotion to emotion. Your mind needs to be more still. It distracts you from getting what you want, what you need."  
  
"Which is?" His lips are so beautiful that I have to touch them with my fingers.  
  
"Love. Affection. Now you have no choice but to accept those things. I’ll make you accept them," I croon.  
  
"After you broke Alex, did you still love him?" He asks, in a dreamy tone.  
  
"Of course. I love every single one of my recruits," I reply with a smile.  
  
"Where do they go when you’ve broken them?"  
  
"They stay in the lounge for a while, serving clients. As they grow older, if they show initiative, or attract the patronage of one of the Elite, they can actually progress to becoming operatives in their own right. That’s what Alex did."  
  
"I see. Did you miss him when he was gone?"  
  
"Not really. There are always new recruits to break and train."  
  
"So the breaking is the only part you really enjoy?"  
  
"It’s my job."  
  
"Don't you find their unquestioning love and obedience just a little tiring? Maybe even boring? There must be something so challenging about figuring out someone’s weaknesses, and bending them to your will, but then when that's done…it’s an anti-climax – kind of like the day after Christmas."  
  
I look down on him sharply, but he’s still got that faraway look in his eyes as if he isn’t really concentrating. I wonder if there's more going on here than meets the eye. He's asking the questions, and I've been happy to go along with that for now, since we're just getting intimate but I think the time has come to break it up a little and return the discussion to him. He distracts me just as I'm thinking this by reaching up and touching my neck, and I’m astonished – I hadn’t expected such an overt display of affection so soon. Usually that only comes after breaking. His fingers find the bruise he gave me yesterday.  
  
"I hurt you. I’m sorry," he whispers. "Did it feel good though, Laurence? Do you also enjoy being wrapped in a pair of strong arms? Being overpowered, and helpless? You’re always so in control. Wouldn’t it be nice to just let go…or are you too afraid? Too afraid that nobody will love you, or want you – afraid that you can only get what you need by violence, and coercion. Do you know, deep in your heart, that you’re unlovable, Laurence? That only by breaking people can you get any affection, and when you get that affection you know it’s worthless, because it was all of your own making. Is that it, Laurence? Is it? Is that why you have so little interest in your recruits once they're broken when you profess to love them so much?"  
  
I’m nursing a viper in my lap. He fooled me, lulled me into a false sense of security with his deceitful displays of trust. He’s been lying to me, accepting my caresses but waiting like a fox in the night to steal from me when my back is turned. My fingers close around his neck, and he’s laughing at me, those hazel eyes alight with the power of knowledge.  
  
"You can rape me, Laurence, and you can hurt me, but really you just want me to love you of my own free will and you know I never will. You know this is the only way."  
  
I place a hand over his mouth where he lies in my lap, shutting out the sound of that spiteful voice speaking such vicious lies. "It’s a pretty mouth, Mulder," I hiss, one hand holding him down, while I keep the other firmly across his lips. "And I think I know a way to keep it better occupied."  
  
I’m aroused by the fear I see reflected all too clearly in his good eye. He’s goaded me too much, and he’ll suffer for it in a uniquely appropriate way.  
  
"Take him back down," I order the dutymen, pushing him off my lap like the dangerous, wild animal he is. He lands awkwardly on the floor, and they grab him, quickly fastening his hands to his side.  
  
"Does the truth hurt, Laurence?" He asks.  
  
"No, but what I’m about to do to you next will," I promise, and he smiles in triumph as they blindfold him, and drag him away.  
  
I have to stay behind to compose myself. I pour a glass of water and down it in one gulp. Damn, but he’s clever. I knew he was, but I shouldn’t have been seduced by his lies, and taken in by his displays of tamed behavior. He’s as vicious, feral, and unprincipled as his namesake fox, and every bit as cunning. Still, he’s in my power, and I’ll make sure he suffers for his words. That pretty mouth will pay for the lies it just told.  
  
*****  
  
Mulder's feet barely touched the ground as he was dragged back to his room. He knew, deep inside, that he was about to pay for what he'd said and done, but he didn't regret it for a second - it felt good knowing that Laurence had a weakness, and he was sure, judging by the other man's reaction, that he had hit some kind of raw nerve. The difficulty would be in exploiting and exploring that without paying too high a price for the knowledge. Somehow he had a feeling that was going to be a very real difficulty.  
  
When the guards threw him back into his room, they unfastened his hands, only to tie them again immediately - behind his back this time. He was forced down onto his knees, and the manacles were then tied to the wall behind him, leaving Mulder immobile. His knees hurt on the stone surface and he wondered how long he'd be tied in this position. He had lost the ability to follow the track of time, but it felt like an eon, although it was probably only a few hours, maybe even less, before he heard the door opening, and footsteps crossing the room to where he knelt. A finger lifted his bowed head and he looked up into the darkness of his blindfold. He knew it was Laurence though - the other man's scent was becoming as familiar to him as his own.  
  
"That was foolish," Laurence said in a soft, sibilant whisper. Mulder shuddered. "And more than that it was hurtful. You've upset me."  
  
Mulder gave a short, bitter bark of laughter. "I'm so sorry," he replied, without remorse.  
  
"You're not, but you will be."  
  
Laurence sounded different. The voice was still urbane, but some of the teasing had gone from the tone, to be replaced by a flat, ruthless inflection that made Mulder's stomach churn.  
  
"I had so hoped not to put you through this, especially at this early stage of our intimacy, but I can see that it's necessary. It's a shame, as I had no wish to share you so liberally with others before I got to know you properly myself, but punishment is required - as is a period of reflection. I'll provide you with both at the same time. First though…" Mulder felt fingers press against his lips, caressing them. "First we must punish this mouth of yours. Who would have thought something so sultry, so sensual, so beautiful, could talk so filthy? We must cleanse it, and fill it more appropriately so you learn what is and is not proper use for such a mouth."  
  
"If you put your cock in my mouth it's the last damn thing you'll do with it. I'll bite down as hard as I fucking can," Mulder snapped, jerking his head away from the other man's hand. Laurence chuckled.  
  
"Ah, Mulder, do you think I've never encountered this problem before? I have, many times, and I've come up with a very good solution to it. You'll suck my cock, dear boy, and you'll suck the cocks of the two dutymen who brought you here. You'll open your mouth and suck whatever is put in it, because if you don't you'll suffer more than you ever thought possible. Let me show you."  
  
Mulder waited, listening, and he heard the sound of something being pulled over - something on wheels. He shivered, his mind supplying him with unwanted, horrifying suggestions of what it could be. Then he felt fingers on his nipples, squeezing and teasing them into points, followed, almost immediately, by a streak of pain that made him scream out loud.  
  
"Hush, dear boy. Those are just little clips. Admittedly they're somewhat tight, but we need to be able to get a good current, and a little discomfort is a small price to pay for that," Laurence said, fingers gently stroking Mulder's hair.  
  
"C…current?" Mulder felt the beads of sweat break out on his forehead. Both of his nipples had now been encased in what felt like two clothespins, and the pain was agonizing.  
  
"Yes, they're attached to a little machine I have here, capable of sending anything from a mild electric current to an almost lethal dose. Now hold still, I haven't finished yet."  
  
Mulder felt his penis being lifted, and because he anticipated what would happen next before it even occurred, he began screaming. A split second later a clamp was attached to his penis, causing another dizzying wave of pain to sweep through him.  
  
"There, all done. I'm going to give you a demonstration of how it works, and then you can decide whether you want to use those fine white teeth of yours after all."  
  
Mulder braced himself, trying to prepare for whatever came next, but nothing was any preparation for it when it happened. At first he heard a fizzing sound, and then a shock wave of pure, raw, jagged pain sliced into his right nipple and his cock, making him scream. The sensation stopped in the right nipple, only to transfer to the left.  
  
"Never the two at the same time. We don't want to shock your heart, do we?" Laurence murmured. "That's set pretty low. We can go much higher. I'm not sure your cock would survive the highest voltage. Some of the tissue might be irrevocably burned. However, as I've said before, your cock, pretty though it is, isn't actually vital to us. Our clients are generally more interested in where they can place their own cocks, than in pleasuring the recruits. We do have female clients as well, but we'll train that tongue of yours to be entertaining for them also, in due course. Now, in a minute you're going to open your mouth, and accept my cock into it. If I feel so much as the tiniest trace of your teeth then I'll just activate this…" A short, sharp burst of pain invaded Mulder's genitals, and flicked from nipple to nipple, and he arched his back involuntarily. "If you make a conscious decision to try to maim me then you stand to lose exactly the same as I do. Understood?"  
  
Mulder knelt, panting, trying to think through the pain. In his heart he knew that rebellion was useless. It would only serve to make him feel better for one split second, and then he would be hurt beyond endurance. It wasn't sensible, but that didn't make it any easier for him to accept what he had been ordered to do.  
  
"I asked if you understood."  
  
A crackle was heard, and the electric current passed from the clips attached to his body into his flesh. He licked his lips, still unable to accept his predicament. It was one thing to be invaded against his will, without the ability to stop it, as had been the case during the rapes, but to calmly open his mouth and accept this man's cock…the idea filled him with revulsion. He had only sucked one man's cock in his life, and that had been such a beautiful experience for both of them that this travesty of that act made him feel physically sick.  
  
"I'll take your silence as a yes then," Laurence said. Mulder heard the sound of a fly being unzipped, and then felt legs against his cheeks. A hand lifted his bowed head again. "Open your mouth," Laurence commanded. Mulder kept his lips resolutely shut. "I said open." Another fizz of electricity made him shudder, but still he would not open his mouth. "Your defiance, although misplaced, is very arousing. You're making me quite hard. I'll enjoy relieving the ache inside your pretty mouth," Laurence whispered in his ear. Mulder shivered. He felt something warm and hard nudge against his cheek, and knew it was the other man's cock. Another second later a buzz of electricity coursed through his body again. This time he knew the current had been adjusted higher, and when it finished he slumped forward, the chains on his wrists biting into his skin where they held him up.  
  
"We can keep going like this for a very long time, but we both know that in the end you'll open your mouth. You see, I'm a very patient man, Mulder, and I have all the time in the world. You will do as I say."  
  
"Go to hell," Mulder ground out, and almost instantaneously the electric current was back. The shock was longer this time, until he felt as if his cock was being burned from the outside in. When it finished, he could no longer hold himself upright. He felt warm hands under his armpits, and he was lifted and maneuvered into an upright position once again.  
  
"Open your mouth," Laurence said.  
  
"Fuck off."  
  
He doubled over before the pain hit, unable to even slump onto the floor in his agony because of the tight confinement of the manacles. His nipples felt as if they were on fire, and he couldn't even touch them, to smooth away the pain. Again he was lifted to a kneeling position. Again the order was given.  
  
"Open your mouth."  
  
He shook his head mutely, and once again the pain shot through every nerve fiber in his body. He screamed, and twitched in his bonds. Again, with infinite care and patience he was lifted into a kneeling position, and again the command was given. This time he didn't have the energy to say anything. He just knelt there, mouth firmly closed, his mind hazy with pain. The following shock was longer and more painful than the previous ones, and he spent several minutes screaming before he was lifted once more.  
  
"I told you I'm patient, but for your sake I hope you won't put yourself through this for much longer. Your nipples must be fried by now." A light chuckle. "So, will you come to your senses, Mulder, or do we have to keep on doing this all night? I'm happy to do that. It isn't causing me any pain and your suffering is most diverting. I could sit and watch you scream forever I think - it's a beautiful sight."  
  
"Bastard," Mulder managed to whisper.  
  
"No, I think we established just a little while ago that you are in fact the bastard." Laurence grabbed a handful of Mulder's hair and pulled his head back, then traced a line down Mulder's throat with his finger. "I'll be kinder though and give you the correct, less colloquial term: illegitimate. That's you, Mulder. It's an interesting word. It implies there's something not proper about your very existence, as if you're an abomination, an aberration; something that shouldn't be, something without a place. You're a boy who should never have been born, a burden on the man who gave you his name, and a silent reproach on the mother who gave birth to you; a living reminder of a mistake, something wrong. You don't belong here, Mulder. You're out of time. You greedily took your chance at life, and forced your way into this world, and now you don't like what you see, and you're screaming at the injustice of it all. That's foolish. It's clear that you're just getting what you deserve, what lies in wait for those who have no place. You're dispossessed. Your real father clearly didn't want you any more than poor Bill Mulder did. Nobody wants you Mulder - nobody except me. Now open your mouth and let me prove that to you. You do still have some worth even if it's just to provide pleasure to your betters. Open."  
  
Mulder knew that his captor was saying something so vile and vicious that he should have been able to rationalize it away, but he was too tired, and he hurt too much, and besides there was something about it that struck an indefinable chord somewhere deep inside him. He swallowed hard, and remembered a time when he had lovingly taken another man's cock into his mouth. It hadn't been too bad then. Laurence seemed to sense his weakness.  
  
"You know you want to. You know you want to make the pain go away. You want to be good, deep inside. You always wanted to be good, didn't you? As a boy, trying to please the man you thought was your father, studying so hard, doing your best to make him proud of you. You couldn't succeed in that, dear boy, but you can succeed in making me proud of you. Your efforts to be good, to be pleasing, won't be wasted on me. Now open up, just open up. There, go on…you know you want to."  
  
Mulder felt his lips opening of their own volition. He felt hands stroke the sides of his face, and then his hair was seized, and something hard and greedy was rammed deep into his mouth. He choked, and gagged, but he couldn't move, or expel the intruder. It tasted of skin, and salt, and smelled of lavender water and something else, something bitter that he couldn't identify.  
  
"Good boy. Oh this feels so good. These pretty lips were made to suck, dear boy. If you never did anything else in your entire life but make your mouth available for this purpose then that would be enough. It's beautiful. One thing I want you to remember…I still have my finger on the machine. One scrape of teeth and there will be punishment. Now, I know it's too much to expect you to pleasure me on our first attempt at this, so I'm just going to take charge." Mulder felt his hair gripped tighter by that fist, and then the thighs against his face moved, fucking that cock in and out of his mouth at a slow, leisurely pace. "This feels so good," Laurence crooned.  
  
Mulder wanted to retch, but couldn't move, couldn't do anything but accept that cock into his mouth, and suffer it slamming into the back of his throat, over and over again.  
  
"I'm delighted that you've chosen to allow me the pleasure of coming in your mouth, dear boy. It's something I wanted from the moment I set eyes on you, and it's a dream come true for me to be here now, doing this with you. You're a very sweet boy to humor me so."  
  
Mulder closed his eyes and tried to escape, but the pressure in his mouth was too distracting. A series of deep thrusts made him gag, and want to throw up, but that wasn't an option as the manacles and the hand in his hair kept him firmly anchored where he was. "Nearly there…I told you we'd find a better use for this pretty mouth than telling lies and making people unhappy. Instead you can use it to make me feel good - and also to make the dutymen feel good. When I'm finished I'm going to hand you over to them. You should see them, Mulder. They're very turned on by what I'm doing to you. One of them has his cock out and is stroking it already, in preparation for his turn. You're going to love his cock, Mulder. You're going to love tasting that in your mouth. Oh…!"  
  
Mulder tried to twist his face away, to lean back, but it was too late. He felt warm, salty come spill onto his tongue, and trickle down his throat, and his battered body slumped in defeat. Laurence withdrew his cock from Mulder's mouth, and Mulder leaned over and retched up the contents of his stomach onto the stone floor.  
  
"Ah, poor boy. Such a rich feast after so many years of abstinence," Laurence sighed. "You'll become used to this feasting though, Mulder. We'll see that you get fed daily from now on. Now on your knees again - the dutyman wants his turn."  
  
Mulder felt himself being lifted, and then another hard cock was nudged into his mouth.  
  
"NO!" He tried to close his jaws and scraped flesh, and the next thing he knew the intruder had been withdrawn and a shockwave of electricity was sent through his body, convulsing him. He was lifted again, and this time he opened his mouth, and sought the escape he had found whilst being raped the other day.  
  
He was walking in a park with his lover in the summer. They were talking.  
  
"I'm intrigued. Why psychology?" His lover had a way of looking directly at him when asking questions that made Mulder's heart pound in his chest.  
  
"You think it's a soft science, like sociology?" Mulder accused.  
  
"I didn't say that."  
  
"You didn't need to. Sometimes I feel like I'm on the witness stand when you ask me questions."  
  
"Sorry." His lover raised his hands, his white teeth shining in his tanned face. "Occupational hazard," he laughed. "Really, I'm just interested. You're one of the smartest people I've ever met, and, well, in my experience the smart people go into the smart professions."  
  
"Like law?" Mulder asked.  
  
"I suppose." His lover shrugged. "Or medicine. Where the hell do you think psychology will take you?"  
  
"Does it have to take me anywhere? Can't I do it for the love of the subject?" Mulder riposted. He loved these question and parry sessions with his lover. Nobody had ever excited him so much on an intellectual level while dazzling him so much on a physical one.  
  
"Of course. I mean I love the law, but what is it you love about psychology?"  
  
"Figuring out what makes people tick doesn't fascinate you?" Mulder asked. "You've cross examined people - you know how interesting it can be figuring out motivation."  
  
"Agreed, but where does it go from there? What use is it?"  
  
"I'm not sure. Maybe one day I'll find out…"  
  
Mulder gagged on more semen, and retched again. They allowed him only a few seconds respite before he was lifted back onto his knees, and the pressure of two thighs on the side of his face convinced him of the wisdom of opening up and taking another cock into his mouth. His lips felt stretched, and swollen, and his jaw ached.  
  
"Let's not talk. Let's fuck," he said to his lover.  
  
"What? Here?" The other man looked around the park. It was mid morning and few people were there.  
  
"Motivation - the excitement of discovery makes the moment more erotic and arousing." Mulder dragged his lover under a tree, and knelt in front of him, opening his fly.  
  
"You're crazy, you know that?" His lover looked torn between running away and allowing Mulder to suck him. The pleasure of the latter instinct won out. Mulder put his hands on his lover's firm buttocks and pulled him close, devouring his lover's beautiful cock. It felt so good. The tip was like velvet, and the shaft hard under soft flesh. Mulder looked up and saw that his lover's eyes were closed, his mouth curved into a dreamy smile, his hands gently stroking Mulder's hair. He felt warm fluid trickling down his throat, sweeter than honey.  
  
"Good boy. All done," Laurence said, breaking into his dream. "But I think you left us again, dear boy. We really will have to work on keeping you here with us. Now, as you've shown yourself to be so duplicitous, I'm going to curtail our sessions in the salon until further notice. I don't want to hear anything else you have to say for now. Instead you can be taken to the Recreation Room for the enjoyment of the dutymen and any clients in the mood for some silent, captive entertainment. And in order to keep today's events in mind, I'm going to ensure your silence in a special way. Open again." Mulder smelled rubber, and something hard, thick, and long, was forced into his mouth. As it slid home and straps secured it around the back of his head, Mulder realized it was a gag fashioned with an insert the same shape and size as a cock. He struggled against it, trying to swallow and breathe around the rubbery length.  
  
"It's easier if you keep calm, and remember to breathe through your nose," Laurence advised him. Mulder tried to calm down but the gag frightened him. It was so large and unrelenting. He could feel the tip nudging the back of his throat, and he swallowed convulsively around it. Even as he was trying to deal with this new evidence of his captor's cruelty, he found himself being untied. The clamps were removed from his body, causing a pain as sharp as when they had been applied, and then he was dragged from the room, and along a corridor. Another room was unlocked, and he was taken inside, and bent over some kind of padded beam or seat. He offered no resistance, still trying to breathe around the gag. His knees were being pushed forward and down, and his arms stretched out and forwards. There was a plastic support under his chest. He felt his wrists being strapped into place, and then his ankles were tied. A wide strap was fastened across his torso, and another over his neck. The hands left him, bound and immobile. He wasn't in an uncomfortable position, but it was deeply humiliating. He was almost sitting, as if on one of those orthopedic chairs, his weight resting on his knees. His upper body was forced forwards, lying at a slightly tilted angle, and his legs were wide apart, leaving his ass open, and exposed to the room. Something cold was fastened around his cock, trapping it.  
  
"Not that I think you're likely to become aroused, but it's better to be safe than sorry," Laurence murmured, fastening the cage tightly, so that his cock couldn't move. "I wouldn't want you to come while you're here. The whole purpose of this room is that you learn that it's our clients who must enjoy themselves, not you. You don't matter." Mulder moaned softly around the gag, and Laurence stroked his hair. "Good boy. I'm hoping that after a little time to cool your heels in here you'll be much more amenable to our chats in the salon." Fingers brushed over his face, and lips kissed his forehead. He could make no reply. "Nothing is required of you here, Mulder," Laurence whispered. "Nothing save your acceptance. Just lie there and receive your visitors." A sudden realization shot through Mulder, and he struggled hard against his bonds, filled with renewed energy after the trauma of the past few hours. "Hush. It'll be good for you in the end. You can't see, and you can't talk. You can't move, or respond; you can only lie here and allow your body to be penetrated. You'll soon grow to look forward to receiving your visitors, as they'll be the only company you have, the only thing to distract you from your own thoughts. I'm going to be very kind to you and insist that your visitors use lubrication to smooth their way; I do so abhor tearing - it slows down the breaking process, and limits my creativity while we wait for you to heal. Hush now, dear boy. It's all a learning experience. And when you return to the salon you'll be so good, so obedient. You'll have learned to treasure conversation and human interaction, and you won't be so hateful to me anymore. Hush."  
  
He heard footsteps, and the sound of a door closing, and he knew that he was alone. He had no idea what kind of room he was in, and it was eerie, being tied, naked, his body exposed in this way. He shivered, still trying not to fight the gag. With this monstrous intrusion in his mouth he couldn't even hum, and humming had helped provide a rhythm to escape to before. Now he only had his own thoughts. How many days had passed since he had been abducted, he wondered? Would they have started looking for him yet? Another thought was nagging him though - even if he survived this process, and was somehow rescued, would he ever be the same again? After all that had happened to him could he ever be the same? He knew enough about the human mind to understand that in just a short while he had undergone enough trauma to keep him in therapy for a lifetime. If he had imagined he was damaged before, then what was he like now? Mulder was denied even the comfort of deep breathing, unable to do more than inhale slowly through his nose and around the edges of the gag. He had grown used to the many pains in his body, but the ache inside was hurting him more now. Rescue…who do you want to rescue you, Laurence had asked, and he knew. He knew he wanted warmth, strength and the comforting oblivion of his lover's arms, a lover who had not held him for 18 years. He thought of Scully finding him like this, and had to struggle against the sense of panic that this image engendered. He couldn’t panic. If he panicked he would hyperventilate and then he wouldn't be able to breathe around this vicious gag. He didn't want to think about Scully in any case, or her reaction to his current predicament. He cared about her too much to inflict this on her. He didn't want her to see him like this, didn't want anyone he loved to see him so degraded, didn't even want to know the depth of his own very real, very human misery. He hungered for an escape of the mind, and longed, with equal need, for his own oblivion. Not death - he wasn't ready for that yet, just peace and the touch of loving, careful hands on his body. Just the rest of not being harmed, not experiencing a rush of adrenaline followed by the inevitable draining aftermath of its loss, just the peace of not living in fear of pain, and the sheer relaxation of not having to be on his guard, not having to stay alert, and keep his wits about him in case he missed something that might be his ultimate salvation. He didn't want to have to watch every word, and think through each guarded sentence, in case he was giving too much away.  
  
A sound behind him broke into his reverie and he tensed as someone came into the room. He waited to hear Laurence's taunting voice, but whoever it was didn't speak. Hands caressed his buttocks, and then pulled them apart, and cool lube was spread inside him on the tip of a finger. He realized what was going to happen, and that was when he remembered that even the empty joy of screaming was denied him. He felt the burning pain of a cock demanding entry into his anus, and was alone with the sounds of the faceless man raping him. He could hear the panting timed with each thrust, could feel clammy, sweaty hands pawing his ass, and he could do nothing to stop it, not even voice a protest, or a cry of defiance. It was over almost as swiftly as it had begun and he was reminded of one of those wildlife programs where chimps endlessly mounted each other, satisfying themselves with a brief coupling, and then continued with what they had been doing before as if nothing had happened. Mulder fought to stay rational. He wasn't the piece of meat Laurence was trying to turn him into. He was more than this. The man came, withdrew, and left. He hadn't said a word the entire time. Mulder lay, struggling for breath, wondering what kind of man could even be aroused in these circumstances. What kind of a person, coming into this room, would think of rape, rather than rescue? If he had been confronted with the same sight, he knew he would have felt nothing but compassion, and a very real and very human need to help. He would have untied the helpless victim, called paramedics - done something to help as much out of empathy for a fellow human being as anything else. His mind, detaching itself from the horrors being inflicted on his body, found memories of books on the Holocaust that reminded him that human nature was not always compassionate. Perhaps in this place a climate had been created by which this was the norm - it was acceptable behavior. That reminded him of something else, something he'd said to his lover as they had argued, in a playful way, about a case in the papers.  
  
"I can understand him doing this but not her," his lover was saying, reading out the salient details of a particularly horrific triple murder case, "I mean this guy is clearly a psychopath. He was tearing the wings off flies when he was barely out of diapers, but his girlfriend was just a normal woman. She even seemed kind of nice. Why would she help him do this? Why did she help him lure the victims to their deaths, and even join in the torture?"  
  
"The power of the charismatic personality." Mulder grinned, looking up from the sports section of the paper. He was sitting on the couch with a plate of toast resting on his lap, dressed in his boxer shorts, still sweaty from a vigorous bout of lovemaking. "You're so funny. You never understand the darkness of the human soul. You're so sure of yourself and what you believe, and you think everyone is as sane and rational as you."  
  
"I do not, and anyway, you say that as if it's a bad thing," his lover bristled.  
  
"No." Mulder crunched on his toast thoughtfully. "No, it isn't. In fact it's a good thing. It's why you could never be like that woman in the paper - but you're more unusual than you think, and she's more common than any of us would like to believe."  
  
"Explain." His lover quirked an eyebrow, in his famous impression of the expert lawyer in cross-examination mode. Mulder grinned. He loved him like this!  
  
"Well, let me tell you about an experiment I came across in one of my psychology textbooks."  
  
His lover sighed, and Mulder's grin widened. He was always citing experiments at his lover - it was the only way to play the other man at his own game, as he was constantly blathering on about legal precedent and case studies when he had the chance.  
  
"There was an experiment in which students were asked to press a button on a box. When they did, someone in the next room cried out. They were told that this was fine - nothing to worry about, and to just continue. You'd be surprised how few people refused to do so - and how many seemed to actively enjoy pressing the button. Of course there was nobody really being hurt in the next room - it was just an experiment."  
  
"And your point?"  
  
Mulder grinned. There always had to be a point. "My point is that people like to be given orders. If you tell them it's okay to do something, no matter how horrible, or how much pain it might be causing someone else, then quite often they'll do it, as long as you reassure them that it's okay, and as long as someone authoritative enough gives the order. For the most part people don't like to think for themselves. Humans like to exist in a hierarchy - and to be told what to do by someone in charge. They don't like to stand out, or be different, because if you do that then you could be the one they turn on next."  
  
"A-ha." His lover mused on this.  
  
"Now, you're different in that you want to be the one giving the orders rather than following 'em blindly," Mulder teased.  
  
"And you're different in that you want to be one of those standing out, even if that means they turn on you next," his lover pointed out.  
  
"Hmm." They both considered that thoughtfully for a moment. "Just don't ever tell them to pick on me when you have all that power you're aiming for," Mulder said, quirking up his mouth. His lover's competitiveness was a joke between them, but the other man was always able to laugh about it.  
  
"Can I pick on you though?" His lover asked, coming over to sit next to him on the couch. He leaned over and reached inside Mulder's boxer shorts with a raised eyebrow and a knowing smile.  
  
"Anytime you like," Mulder grinned, giggling as he disappeared under the weight of a solid, attractive body.  
  
Time passed. He slept a little, and endured, as he had no choice, the frequent visitations from faceless men. Not all of them were silent, although he was sure they were supposed to be - that Laurence had ordered it that way. He wasn't sure which he despised most - those who tiptoed in here, and used him in silence like a piece of meat, or those who needed to talk to him in order to get aroused.  
  
"Ooh, pretty baby, yeah. This is good. Are you enjoying this? Oh yeah, take it, take it. See, it's big, it's hard, and it's all for you. Do you feel that? Hmmm?"  
  
"My girlfriend won't let me do this…up the ass…it's always been a fantasy of mine…" That last said almost apologetically. "I wouldn't get the chance normally, so it's good you're here." Like he was some kind of public service.  
  
Then there were those who were violent, slapping and biting his ass, calling him names. "Motherfucker, whore. I'm going to give it to you good, you brown nosed faggot. I'm going to fuck your ass until you scream, you fucking queer…"  
  
They would have made him laugh if he could. He longed for the gag to be gone, longed to point out to them what twisted, perverted psychos they were, but he had been denied voice, or humanity. He was just a piece of meat. Nameless, his suffering was irrelevant. They had made him the 'other' that his lover had predicted all those long years ago, and projected onto him all their insecurities, all their loathing, and all their hatreds. He was nothing.  
  
They untied him at regular intervals, dragged him back to his room, and removed his gag, only to stick a feeding tube down his throat. If they'd given him a moment to speak he would have told them it wasn't necessary, that he would eat, but maybe this was all part of the punishment for daring to try and get inside Laurence's head, the way his torturer was attempting to climb into his. After feeding he was tied, with his hands behind his back, and attached to the damn electricity machine that he had grown to fear more than anything else for the way it could reduce him to a quivering mass of agony within seconds. He no longer fought the oral rapes. He just closed his eyes, and disappeared into his dreams. His lips were permanently chapped and sore from both the gag and the fellatio but he had grown too used to pain to care. As they thrust into his mouth the back of his head banged against the wall. Once, twice, over and over again, and he let it happen. Sometimes only the sharpness of pain reminded him that he was still alive, that he hadn't died and gone to hell. Sometimes Laurence was there, but often he was not. Mulder had the feeling that the other man was ignoring him on purpose, and, much to his surprise, he found that he missed those touches on his hair, the soothing little whispers and gentle caresses. He had always hated them, but they were the only kindness he had been shown in this place. It was the kindness of the one person who was inflicting the most of his pain, but it was all he had, and he hated himself for needing it.  
  
After they were finished with his mouth they always tied him to the post and whipped him. He wasn't sure if it was a daily event, because he didn't know what time had passed, but it always happened in this order; first the feeding, then the oral rape, then the beating. As he hung from the post, barely conscious, they gave him his enema, before hosing him down, washing away all the dried semen from his mouth, and ass, and thighs and gagging him again. Then it was back to the Recreation Room, where he was tied in the same position each time, and was visited by a succession of faceless men. He lost count of how many, or how often. Sometimes he was alone in the dark, with his thoughts, for what seemed like a very long time, and he almost feared his own mind during those times. If he was lucky he escaped into exhausted sleep, or the past, but more and more frequently he was not so lucky. Shapeless demons, the leftover bogeymen of a child's nightmare, haunted his semi-conscious moments instead.  
  
And then, one day, Laurence was back. He smelled the other man's unmistakable scent as he was untied - that foul combination of lavender and something bitter, and unidentifiable. He was dragged back to his room, and the hated gag was removed from his throat, leaving him, as it always did, with the foul taste of rubber in his mouth. He was fed, orally raped, beaten, given an enema and hosed down as usual, but then, instead of gagging him again, they pushed him down on his knees, and he felt fingers stroking his hair.  
  
"There, my dear boy. Did you miss me?" That urbane, familiar, almost blessed voice asked him.  
  
"Y…yes," he replied, beyond lies, not used to speaking.  
  
"I knew you would. Now that you've seen how cruel I can be you appreciate the kindness I showed you before," Laurence purred. "You took it for granted then - the cozy fireside chats, the affection, the good food."  
  
Mulder nodded, because it was true. He tried to form a word but the effort was too great.  
  
"I've missed you as well but it doesn't need to be this way. We can be together, reunited, can't we?" Gentle lips on his forehead, and tender arms wrapped around his shoulders.  
  
"Please don't send me back to that room," he managed to gasp, his mouth feeling strange, the sound of his voice even stranger.  
  
"I'd prefer not to. I'd much prefer to resume our previous discussions, but how can I tell if you're in the right frame of mind to continue?"  
  
"I'll try." Mulder rested his head on a bony shoulder, not caring. He would try because the alternative was the dark insanity of that room…not the grotesquely misnamed 'Recreation Room' but the Raping Room, as he had christened it. If he had to go back there he knew that he would lose his mind.  
  
"Well, I'm sure you think you mean that, but I need to have some proof of your intent. Tell you what, why don't you answer me one tiny question, and if you do that, I'll know you're acting in good faith, and I'll allow you back to the salon. Hmm?"  
  
"Wha…what's the question?" He asked, his mouth sore, and uncertain. Lips touched his, and a tongue found its way inside. Mulder accepted it, acquiescent and still under fondling, caressing fingers. Then the kiss ended, and a voice spoke into his ear.  
  
"What was the name of your lover?"  
  
Mulder opened his mouth, wordless, and let his misery scream into the world, in a silent miasma of refusal.  
  
"I don't…" he hung there, his head resting against the other man's shoulder. He saw a world in which he told this truth and could not live in it, knowing what questions might follow and what part of himself he might give away in just the two small words of a name. "…remember…" he finished, facing the void again. Laurence dropped him abruptly, and he fell to the floor, hitting his head on the stone surface.  
  
"Take him back to the Recreation Room."  
  
The voices talked to him in the dark now, in that room. They talked to him as unseen hands silently pried his buttocks apart, and countless hard cocks thrust into him. He spoke to his mother at some length - he could see her just over to the left, just past his shoulder. She was always dressed in a plain white blouse, and her hair looked nice, as if she'd just had it done. Sometimes Scully came, but not often, and when she did she always scolded him about something. It was usually something silly, something small, like whether he'd remembered to pick up his suit from the dry cleaner. He liked that. He liked listening to her scolding. Sometimes it was his father, Bill Mulder, the man who had raised him, but Mulder didn't want to talk to him. He didn't know what they had to say to each other. How could he face his father knowing the truth anyway? Knowing he wasn't really his son? Mulder turned his face away when his father visited. Then sometimes it was his lover. His lover always stood just out of sight in the shadows, his face hidden. Sometimes Mulder only knew he was there because he caught a glimpse of his red shirt. He talked to his lover at length but it didn’t go anywhere. Often he ended up shouting but afterwards he couldn't remember why, and his lover never said much anyway, just listened, and waited, and listened. It was infuriating. No wonder Mulder ended up yelling. He could hear the sound quite clearly in his mind, although he was gagged.  
  
Sometimes Laurence visited him in the Recreation Room now. At least he thought it was Laurence. The man talked to him in Laurence's voice. No, he knew it was Laurence because the gag was removed, and that never happened with any of the others.  
  
"Why do you protect him, hmm? Why does he matter? He dumped you didn't he?"  
  
"No."  
  
"That isn't what you said before. You said he abandoned you."  
  
"He…" The truth, as he had so often found before, was more complicated. Laurence raped him, as they had all raped him. It was familiar, even comforting. Rock, rock; stroke, stroke. It was slow, and he was caressed. Fingers trailing down his back, gentle caresses on his buttocks, little kisses.  
  
"Yes he did. He betrayed you."  
  
Mulder closed his eyes; saw his lover standing in the hallway, holding a suitcase. "Fox…I'm sorry, but this isn't working out." He remembered staring, blankly, as his lover tried to talk to him, but the words, although he could still repeat them verbatim after all these years, had barely made sense to him at the time. "I don't think either one of us knows what we want. I'm confused - about my career, about you, about everything. I'm moving. I need to find that job you keep telling me is right for me, the one that's out there somewhere. I need for you to grow up - and no I'm not patronizing you. God knows I'm not doing that." His lover put his hands on Mulder's shoulders, and gazed into his eyes. He looked so very sad. "It's just that you're so young, and you need to experience a hell of a lot more before you settle down with one person. I'm sorry."  
  
"He said he was sorry," Mulder whispered.  
  
"That's not good enough though is it?" Laurence asked, as he pushed back in. "He abandoned you. I'd never do that, Mulder. I'll always be here for you. Was he scared? You have to play the right game to succeed in this world, and 18 years ago being a self-confessed homosexual wasn't a good career move, was it? Your lawyer was ambitious and you were in the way."  
  
"That wasn't how it was. We were both scared."  
  
"I expect it was made clear to him. I expect somebody had words in his ear. I expect he got married. A nice, trophy wife, so he could continue climbing the corporate ladder without them pointing and saying 'he's not one of us'. Is that how it was?"  
  
"No!"  
  
"He was a coward. He sold you, Mulder. He sold your happiness for his own career."  
  
"NO!"  
  
"Think about it. He's why you're here, suffering. He isn't worth protecting, Mulder."  
  
"No, no, no," he spoke the words in time to each thrusting intrusion into his own body, and afterwards the gag was replaced, he was kissed on the forehead, and the other man left. Mulder wanted to cry out after him to come back but he couldn't because of the gag.  
  
He saw a suitcase in a hallway. Tell the truth, a voice in his head insisted, tell him that you were intending to run out first but he beat you to it, and you never forgave him for that, but he caught a glimpse of his lover's red shirt just out of sight in the shadows, and he couldn't.  
  
"It doesn't matter," his lover whispered. "Let it go. Let me go. It's okay. Give it up. Give it up."  
  
He was sure he was losing his sanity now. He knew he couldn't endure this much longer. His mind was worn down to nothing and he couldn't tell the difference between the past and the present any more. It was all just one long, jumbled narrative. Then it was back to his room, the gag was removed, he was force fed, then orally raped, the beating, the enema…it was all so familiar. Finally he was hosed down, and then the gag was pressed against his lips, but not fastened, teasing him, testing him.  
  
"Take him back to the Recreation Room," Laurence said and he sagged, helpless, knowing he couldn't take another day in that room. "Unless you'd like to tell me the name of your lover?" Laurence knelt beside him, holding him up. Mulder didn’t have the strength to raise his head. He just wanted to stay here, in these arms, being held. Safe. Warm. Comforted. He knew, with the only small kernel of self-awareness and clarity that was left to him, that if he went back to that room he would lose any chance he had of surviving this process, and defeating his opponent. If he went back he would be lost. He had to stay in this game somehow. That was what he told himself anyway, although he couldn’t be sure if it was just an excuse.  
  
"Walter," he said, gazing into the darkness of the blindfold. "His name was Walter Skinner."  
  
There was silence for a long time - so long that he didn't even know whether he'd said the name or not. Then he was being helped to his feet, and over to the table.  
  
"Give him a hot bath, and some painkillers, see that those welts are treated, and then bring him back to the salon," Laurence ordered in a low voice, full of triumph. Mulder knew he had done something very good, or very stupid. The only problem was that he wasn't sure which.  
  
*****  
  
I’m walking on air as I return to the salon. My feet are so light I could dance. These tiny breakthroughs are why I do this job. They make it all worthwhile. It’s so beautiful, like the most perfect song. The problem with the Recreation Room is that it can break some people too far, into insanity, and then it’s impossible to find them again. It renders them more or less useless to work with so I use the Recreation Room sparingly – and I think only Charles’s assistant has spent more time in there than Mulder. It was necessary though – as this breakthrough shows. I did worry about it being too much for him but following my instincts proved right, as always.  
  
He’s an intriguing mix of frailty and strength is my Fox Mulder. He has so many weak, sensitive areas that can be attacked, but he compensates for that by having great mental strength, and an innate dignity that are both very hard to breach. He’s spent his life constructing defense mechanisms against trauma that would have emotionally crippled many of us, and most of these defenses are serving him very well. The Recreation Room was, in many ways, a particular nightmare for him. Not so much because of the sexual exploitation, although I’m sure that distressed him, but because of the silence, the mental isolation, and the inability to use his fine mind to communicate in any way, because he does so love to talk. Being locked inside your own mind is a salutary experience for any of us. You only need to study the effects of prisoners in solitary confinement to understand that. I’m sure that Mulder will be much chastened by his experience, but not by any means broken. One tiny step forward doesn’t mean he’s remotely broken. He isn’t. He’s amenable for now because the Recreation Room was the greatest threat to his well-being, and he took a conscious, calculated decision, weighing the risks and gains, and decided that in this instance volunteering information was the wisest course of action. He also knew that the longer he stayed there the poorer his physical condition would become, and the less resistant he would be to my questioning. He’s buying time, sweet boy, and I’m quite prepared to sell it to him in exchange for what I want.  
  
Which brings me to the topic of Walter Skinner. You know, I had prepared for the possibility that Mulder would lie before finally yielding me the truth. I even had to consider this great revelation for a second before knowing, without any shadow of a doubt, that he was speaking the truth. For a start it had to be a pretty big truth to make him want to hide it so assiduously for so long, and this is definitely a big truth. In addition it would serve no purpose to offer such an outrageous and easily checked lie. No, I’m quite certain he’s telling the truth – and it does explain why Assistant Director Skinner has been prepared to risk his integrity, career prospects, and even his life on occasion in support of his subordinate. I had wondered about that. It also makes sense that he has a mental block about masturbating while fantasizing about Skinner - seeing the man every day at work while sharing a history might make such fantasies more painful than joyful. Knowing that you can’t have what you want so much…well I can understand that kind of pain; it’s exquisite, like no other, uniquely poised between pleasure and agony. No wonder he had such a blockage. Now that we know, we can begin exploring this topic a little more deeply. Walter Skinner…in a way I view him as my rival for Mulder’s affections. This love affair they shared so many years ago, so brief and intense, that burned itself out on the pyre of their youth and confusion; it is integral to his psyche, and it’s going to be very enjoyable using it to break him.  
  
I return to the salon, and sit on the couch with a sigh of pure relaxation. The past few days haven’t been easy for me. At this stage in the breaking process I really do prefer to spend a considerable amount of time with my new recruit and I’ve been denied that. Hopefully we can make up for lost time now. I’m so giddy with triumph that I allow myself the smallest sip of sherry. Just a taste on my lips – what comes next requires a clear head after all.  
  
He’s brought up half an hour later. He certainly smells better, and he’s been shaved, and cleaned up, although, let’s be honest, he still looks a bit of a mess. That’s fine. We can restore his beauty in due course. The dutymen drag him into the middle of the room and let go of him, and he falls, almost comically to the floor, utterly unable to stand. He lies there, quiet and unmoving, his chest rising and falling evenly. I nod to the dutymen to remove his blindfold, and unfasten his hands from his belt. He makes no move throughout, just lies still. He’s blinking, unused to the light, and it’s nice to be able to study him more closely than the dim recesses of the basement rooms allow. He’s not as badly injured as he thinks he is – the whips I use bestow the maximum sensation with the minimum damage. His white flesh is liberally marked with red streaks, but they’ll all fade very swiftly, leaving no trace. His mouth is more seriously hurt – the gag I used is very severe, and the corners of his mouth are swollen and crusted with sores. His lips are chapped and cracked, bleeding a little in places. Otherwise he’s unharmed. His rectum is undoubtedly sore, but it isn’t torn. I make it very clear to all those requesting use of the Recreation Room that they must, under no circumstances, cause damage of any kind to the recruit restrained in there. There are trainees that I’m happy to lend them for that purpose if it’s required. A broken trainee is a much better prospect for such abuse in any case, as their acquiescent natures make them amenable to even quite severe brutality, which has the effect of lessening the possibility of any permanent damage.  
  
Mulder is looking at me. I’ve missed gazing into those beautiful hazel eyes. He really is one of the more captivating men I’ve had in my salon. It’s strange – when I first saw him I didn’t think he was beautiful at all, but his looks have really grown on me.  
  
"You can lie there if you like. Or sit with me. The chair is also an option." I nod in the direction of his usual armchair. "I have a nice meal to tempt you. After the liquids you’ve been living on recently I’m sure you’re about ready for some real food." He raises his head and glances at the little table next to his chair. It’s filled with the most delicious smelling food.  
  
"Meatloaf?" he croaks, raising an eyebrow at me. He glances at his plate, which contains the most superior example of this particular dish that he will surely have ever seen. There are three large, succulent slices waiting for him, topped with a thick, bright red ketchup glaze, and surrounded by creamy mashed potatoes, and green beans.  
  
"Followed by chocolate pie for dessert," I add. "With a coconut piecrust. Your favorites I believe?"  
  
"Yeah. My favorites. You’ve been reading up on me, Larry."  
  
I freeze as my hand reaches out for my glass of water. His hazel eyes watch my movement.  
  
"You don’t like me calling you Larry?" He asks, in a teasing tone. This is the odd thing about him. Whereas his shortening of my name should be a deliberate challenge to my authority, coming from him it just seems like a friendly tease. There’s no malice in either his eyes or his tone of voice. He isn’t challenging my authority and that’s why it’s so hard to reprimand him.  
  
"I’ve already told you to call me ‘sir’," I remind him, trying to sound sterner than I actually feel. I’m really a little amused. Here he is, naked, hurt, severely abused, and the first thing he does is tease me. It’s so refreshing, and it’s part of what makes him such fun.  
  
"Nobody calls you Larry? That’s a shame. Larry, Curly and Moe – the Three Stooges." He glances over at the two dutymen, one of who does actually bear more than a passing resemblance to 'Curly'. It’s funny. I can’t help laughing out loud. He pushes himself into a sitting position, wincing as he does so. "You look different when you laugh like that, Larry," he says softly in that hoarse voice, his face just inches away from my knee. "You should laugh more often."  
  
"And you should have something to eat. I can see that you’re in better spirits now."  
  
"Painkillers. Never realized what a buzz the little fellas could give you until now. Work like this on an empty stomach maybe?"  
  
He struggles to get up and the blood drains from his head, so he sways, dizzily. Deciding that he doesn’t have either the energy or strength to walk, he crawls instead. I watch, unmoving, enjoying the sight of his long legs and naked ass as he makes the journey. He’s in poor shape, so it takes him a while. I’m delighted by his demeanor though. People react differently after a spell in the Recreation Room. Some are so traumatized that they are silent for days. Others feel the need to talk, and once they begin they can’t stop. Mulder, of course, is different. He seems almost eager to show me that he’s willing to co-operate, but is in no sense cowed or defeated. He’s trying to be the person he’d be if I had just met him in a restaurant for lunch. He’s trying, I realize, to be him. After days of having his sense of self well-nigh obliterated, he’s desperately feigning that everything is fine, everything is okay - he’s still him. And he’s putting on this show as much for himself as for me. He so needs to know that he’s a real person, not just a body to be abused and raped by faceless men. It’s a good strategy, and it shows some measure of his mental strength that he’s able to present such a convincing façade. In the midst of what he sees as depravity and deprivation, he’s trying to impose normality. I would expect nothing less of someone with his background and areas of expertise. He’s trying to make me, his captor, see him as someone real, someone human, and someone I might relate to. Clever boy.  
  
His movements are quite pitiful really. He tries to climb his way into the chair but his muscles aren’t working, so he slumps, defeated, in front of it, and, disguising this failure as if he had never intended to sit in it anyway, he decides not to risk another humiliating attempt so he stays on the floor instead, his back leaning against the chair. From there, he helps himself to the food on his plate. It’s agonizing to watch. It takes him a few minutes to cut into each slice of meatloaf, and every mouthful is grindingly slow. He chews thoughtfully, and I wonder if he even tastes the food. It could well be that he’s eating merely because he knows he needs to get some of his strength back. It’s such a shame because the meal really is delicious. Meatloaf is, unfortunately, the kind of fare that I remember all too well from my childhood, but thankfully the chef has managed to turn Mulder’s somewhat geeky, homely favorite foodstuff into his usual tour de force of culinary delight.  
  
"So," Mulder says conversationally, glancing at me as if we are old friends catching up on gossip. "Whaddya want to talk about, Larry? You wanna talk about Walter?"  
  
I smile indulgently. He’s so sweet. Pretending that his revelation wasn’t won from him by dint of his own sweat, pain and tears in order to negate his sense of failure at having given in to me. His voice is very husky, and he forms his words with care, his lips and tongue clearly still tender after the gagging.  
  
"Do you?" I inquire politely.  
  
"Aw Christ, Larry, you’re sounding like a therapist now," he says, his hazel eyes shining a little too brightly. He’s almost certainly running a fever.  
  
"I’ll admit that your little revelation took me by surprise." I smile at him tenderly.  
  
"Didn't expect that one, huh?" He grins, as if pleased to have been able to shock me.  
  
"Not at all. It must have been hard for you – working with Mr. Skinner after your former liaison. How did you both react?"  
  
He munches for a long time, pretending it is the chewing that is taking all the time, and not his own careful, considered response to the question.  
  
"Wasn’t easy," he concedes at last. "But it had been 13 years – I hadn’t seen him in all that time. Not once. I knew there was an AD called Walter Skinner at the Bureau but you know it just never sank in that it might be him. I don’t know why – too weird I suppose. After the life I've led you’d think I would be used to weird." He shrugs, and then grimaces in pain as that movement hurts.  
  
"Are you sure you didn’t know he was there?" I ask quietly, stirring my cup of tea.  
  
"What do you mean?" He takes another nonchalant bite of his food.  
  
"I mean that you had been urging him to find a new job and he left looking for one. You knew he’d gone to DC. Maybe you even considered following him. Maybe you’d heard through the grapevine that he’d gone into the Bureau. Maybe it even influenced your own decision to join."  
  
"No. I didn’t know," he says, very quickly. "I didn’t know it was him. I didn’t know he was there. Even when I heard his name I didn’t piece it together. It wasn’t until I saw him from a distance in the hallway…and even then, you know, I wasn’t sure. He’d changed quite a bit."  
  
"I’m not saying it was a conscious decision." I smile at him blandly. "But he denied you closure didn’t he? You needed that. I think you did know he was there, even though you didn’t seek him out. I think you were just waiting for the moment when you’d see him again."  
  
"No. I didn’t know," he says softly.  
  
"And what did happen when you met him again?"  
  
"It was…strange." He has a faraway expression in those unnaturally bright eyes. Shame though it is, I think I’ll have to draw this particular conversation to an end fairly soon or risk making his fever worse. "We were assigned to him all of a sudden, out of nowhere. I was called to his office, and…when I saw him there was this moment when the whole world stood still. He looked at me, and I looked at him. There was somebody else there though, that cigarette smoking bastard of a boss of yours, so we couldn’t say anything. I’m not sure he would have said anything anyway. He’d changed quite a bit. He was heavier, and, Christ, he was practically bald!"  
  
"And you found him just as attractive as you had 13 years before, maybe even more so," I predict.  
  
"Yes. I did." He shrugs.  
  
"Age, power, his own authority over you. All of these things you found attractive."  
  
"Maybe. Also just because it was him. He was still there behind those dark eyes," he murmurs, "only he didn’t want me to see. He just shook my hand, and gestured me to a chair, where he proceeded to try and kick me off a case."  
  
"And you showed him that you didn’t give a damn about his authority, that you remembered him stark naked and lying in your arms, by telling him as politely as possible where to stick it," I laugh.  
  
"Yes. Something like that." He shifts uncomfortably, worried by the amount I am able to surmise. "He called me Fox. That really riled me up. Nobody calls me Fox except people I’m intimate with. My family, and lovers. He called me Fox in front of someone. He didn’t have the right to call me that any more. I reacted badly – he must have seen in my eyes what I was thinking. He didn’t call me Fox again."  
  
"And you never talked about it." Two dysfunctional men. Hopeless! It’s really quite amusing.  
  
"No. He wanted to on one occasion. Cornered me in my office one day, but I made it clear that it was in the past, that I didn’t even want to think about it, and he left it there. We could have been two different people." He shrugs, a rather sweet, lost, endearing gesture. He’s fading fast, poor lamb. This bravura performance he’s putting on really has taken its toll on him. He has, after all, just endured days of silence, of beatings, and of forced penetration. He’s shell shocked, running on empty.  
  
"I found out later that he was married. He’d been married for years – got married less than a year after we split up. Not a happy marriage I don’t think." He shrugs again, and gazes at his food as if its no more appetizing than sawdust. "I met her. She was nice. She told me…she told me that he talked about me a lot." He bows his head. "Christ that nearly undid me. You see, it wasn’t all his fault… There’s other stuff… I…" He raises his head again, but he’s too far gone to complete whatever it is he was about to say. He goes out like a lamp, all his energy draining from his body, and his hand drops, lifelessly to his side.  
  
"You’re very tired, Mulder," I whisper.  
  
"Yes." His body has started to shake.  
  
"You need rest, don’t you?"  
  
"Yes." Alarm creeps into those expressive hazel eyes. "Don’t take me back downstairs. Please, I’ll try and talk. I’ll try and keep going. I don’t want…"  
  
"It’s all right. I wasn’t going to suggest it. You need a proper night’s sleep in a proper bed. You can sleep with me if you like, in my bed. Would you like that?"  
  
"Would you tie me?" He asks.  
  
"No." I shake my head, smiling at him. "You can sleep for as long as you like. I won’t wake you. You won’t be beaten. All I ask is that you are respectful, and obedient."  
  
He nods, beyond coherent thought at this stage, and I get up, and go over to him. He’s far too weak to hurt me so I crouch in front of him, and help him to his feet. He’s like a dead weight, but I love holding him, my hands circling his beautiful, precious body. I sling one of his arms around my neck, and half-walk, half-carry him into the next room. He’s too tall for me to pick up bodily, which I’d like to do, and I’m far too old to manage it, unfortunately, but he is able to stagger the few steps from my salon into the bedroom I use for show. I sit him on the huge, king-sized bed, and roll him under the sheets. His eyes close the minute his head hits the pillow.  
  
"Sweet dreams, dear boy." I sit on the bed next to him, and stroke his hair, watching him sleep. It isn’t night – it’s actually around noon - so there’s no question of me sleeping with him. It’s dangerous apart from anything else. If he woke up while I was sleeping he might attack me. I position the dutymen outside the door, and then return to the bed to watch over him. I love the little mole on the side of his face, and the way his dark lashes frame his cheeks. I love those sensual lips and make a mental note to allow them to heal before gagging him again. Unable to resist, I turn the temperature up to ensure he’s comfortable, and then strip back the blankets and gaze at his naked body. He is such a feast, and I love him like this, untied and unwary. He’s so out of it that he doesn’t even wake when I run my fingers over his skin. I love the softness of his inner thighs, and the warm glow of his welted buttocks. Such a pleasing juxtaposition of sensation. I dip my head and nuzzle at his nipples, kissing each one gently, and then lick a line up to his jaw. My sleeping boy. My poor, dear, sleeping boy. What a treasure he is proving to be.  
  
He still hasn’t woken up 12 hours later when I go to bed. I position a dutyman in the room to watch him, and retire to my own Spartan bedroom along the hallway. When I wake the next morning, he’s still asleep, but he needs the rest so I don’t begrudge him. I sit at the desk in my bedroom, working my way through the bills and correspondence. I’m so involved in it that it takes me quite by surprise when a drawling voice breaks through my reverie.  
  
"You working, Larry? You look strange – I somehow never imagined you as a paper-pusher." I glance up and see his eyes fixed on me from across the room. I wonder how long he has been watching me.  
  
"Oh, my dear boy, you’d be surprised how much paperwork is involved in running this place. There are always goods to order, and bills to be paid."  
  
"Goods huh?" He grins, and sits up, resting his head on his hand as he gazes at me. "Don’t tell me there’s a place where you can buy some of this stuff – that electricity machine for example. There’s a place that makes them, Larry?"  
  
An interesting strategy. Rendering the objects of fear less terrifying, more familiar by pondering the mundanity of where and how they might be purchased.  
  
"How are you feeling?" I cut him off abruptly.  
  
"Stiff," he replies.  
  
"That’s understandable. Would you like a hot bath followed by a nice long massage?"  
  
He eyes me warily. "A bath? Alone?" he asks.  
  
"Of course not." I get up, cross the room, and draw back the curtain in an alcove to reveal the large Jacuzzi. "We’ll bathe together," I tell him. He considers it for a moment. "I’m sure you feel dirty - all those men thrusting into you. You must want to wash the smell of them from your skin. It’s hard to feel really clean, isn’t it?"  
  
"If I refuse, do I get sent back to my room? Or…that other place?" He knows the Recreation Room has a name but clearly can’t bring himself to say it out loud. I just shrug, and smile, somewhat maddeningly I’ll admit. Let his own mind supply the details of what will happen if he refuses! Actually, if he does I’ll simply take him to the salon to feed him, and talk some more, but he doesn’t know that. He weighs it up, licking his lips anxiously.  
  
"All right," he says at last, clearly not willing to risk being sent back downstairs.  
  
"Good boy."  
  
I fill the bath, and then summon one of the dutymen into the room. It won’t be necessary to always have attendance when he’s broken, but for now, he could still turn on me when I least expect it. I undress and slip into the bath, and then beckon him over. He hesitates, but finally comes, eyes down. There’s even some shame in those pretty eyes, as if he knows he’s selling out but he’s quite wrong.  
  
"Why the downcast look?" He slips into the bath beside me, and refuses to meet my eye.  
  
"Just thinking how easy it is for you to order me to do this," he mutters. "Is this what you mean by breaking someone, Larry?" His hazel eyes look up, and meet mine, mute with his own despair.  
  
"Good god, no!" I laugh. "I agree that anyone seeing you now might imagine you’re broken. You’re following my orders, and being very agreeable. Come here." I snap my fingers and he struggles with himself again, glances at me, then over to the dutyman, and then, finally, comes. I wrap my arms around him and bury my nose in his slightly wet hair. "It’s certainly easy enough to train you, like a dog, so that you avoid the consequences of bad behavior, and are acquiescent to my commands," I tell him, and he stiffens. "However that isn’t breaking. After a few days of normality in your own apartment, you’d be just as difficult as you were to begin with. Only by breaking you will I ensure that you’ll do as you’re told, even when I am nowhere near. It’s such a long, beautiful process." He shivers, and I take a large, yellow sponge, soak it in water, and then squeeze the contents over his lovely, long limbed body, delighting in the way the water splashes over that white flesh. "Hold still, dear boy. I want to fondle."  
  
I soap him all over, and then wash him with the sponge, lingering over his cock, and the crease between his buttocks. He swallows hard, and fights with every last vestige of his self control not to lose it, and hit out at me. He knows that he’s not in any physical condition to endure the Recreation Room right now. Even another beating isn’t wise in his condition.  
  
"Don’t worry about it," I tell him, nibbling at his earlobe. "You’ll do fine when the times comes. You’ll break, as they all do. I promise you." He shivers again.  
  
"And if I don’t?" He asks, his voice barely more than a whisper.  
  
"But you will," I reassure him. "It might be a long, painful process, but you will."  
  
"I don’t think you can do anything worse to me than you already have and I’m not broken yet," he says. I love that he can talk so honestly and openly about this subject. Very few of my recruits have been able to do this. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had this particular discussion with any of them.  
  
"Oh, my dear boy, there are many ways to break a person. We’ll find yours, don’t you worry." I run my fingers over his chest, and tweak a nipple playfully.  
  
"Please. Don’t," he says, and I can’t tell if he’s referring to the breaking or my fondling.  
  
"I have to." I fasten my arms tighter around him, the contact with his lovely body and trembling uncertainty making my cock hard. "You’ll be such a pleasure when you’re broken. You’ll be so loving, so obedient. There won’t be any hesitation or doubts. You’ll be full of certainties, and so responsive."  
  
"I’ll be whatever you want, just please don’t whip me again, or send me to that room."  
  
"Ah, if only I could make that promise." I kiss his neck, lingering, sucking at the skin, and he splashes a little in the water. "But you see there will be times when you need to be whipped, Mulder, even when you’re broken, and it’s my duty to make sure that you receive what you deserve."  
  
"You talked about deserving before. You said I deserved punishment," he says, in a faltering tone. "Why did you say that, Larry?"  
  
"Because you do." I squeeze him again. "You’re very lovely, Mulder, but you’re also very mixed up. We have to straighten you out, punish all your willful disobedience out of you. It isn’t cruelty on my part – I’m doing this entirely for your own benefit."  
  
"Yeah. Right." He hunches uncomfortably and I chuckle.  
  
"You’ll see. Now, you’re making me very aroused. Can I enter you here and now or must I tie you first? It’s all the same to me. Just let me know."  
  
He turns in my arms, a startled look on his face.  
  
"I don’t want it," he says.  
  
"I know, but it’s going to happen. Now, can I rely on you to hold still, or must I tie you? If you force me to tie you then I’ll beat you as well."  
  
He considers it, glancing at his chafed wrists, and then shrugs.  
  
"No, that’s not good enough. I must have an answer. I can tie you, beat you and penetrate you, or you can agree to me making love to you by your own consent - untied. What is the answer?"  
  
He clenches his fists. He’s afraid of another beating, and rightly so, but he hates the idea of allowing me to do this to him without struggling.  
  
"All right," he says at last.  
  
"Ask me then." I fondle the side of his face, smiling at him. "Ask me properly. Ask me to make love to you. Not rape, Mulder. This isn’t rape. This will be making love, with your full consent."  
  
"But if I don’t you’ll tie me, beat me, and do it anyway," he protests.  
  
I laugh. "That’s right."  
  
He really wants to fight me at this moment in time, but experience has taught him the futility of protest, and a kind of resigned hopelessness creeps into his eyes.  
  
"Please make love to me then," he whispers, his voice slightly choked, those beautiful hazel eyes large and tragic.  
  
"Dear boy! I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited to hear you say those words!" I exclaim, full of joy. "How would you like to be taken? From behind? Or looking into my eyes?" Making him collude in his own penetration is, admittedly, a little cruel, but it’s really so enjoyable, and psychologically it’s quite devastating.  
  
"Whatever you want." He shrugs.  
  
"No, my dear boy – what do you want? I want everything to be perfect for you during our first proper bout of love making."  
  
His hands are clenched into tight fists. If I push him any more he’ll snap and then I’ll have to whip him, which will be a pity as I’m looking forward to this.  
  
"Not from behind," he grinds out. Ah, no. That’s too reminiscent of the Recreation Room.  
  
"Lie on your back then, on the side of the Jacuzzi." The bath is sunken, so I position him with his back on the floor, his legs wide open, trailing into the warm water, before I rise up on my knees on the ledge near the side of the Jacuzzi, and work his ass open. He’s very tender here, which is hardly surprising. I reach for lubricant from the side of the bath, and rub some inside him, before anointing my own, eager cock. He is swallowing convulsively, his legs twitching, and I know he wants to get up and run away. I pat his thighs, soothing him as if he is an excitable thoroughbred stallion.  
  
"There, there. Hold still." His eyes widen as I enter between his buttocks, and he bucks, his muscles clenching against me. I hold my position, and calm him again. "You’ll have to learn to take this, dear boy. If we are to introduce you to our clients then we must make sure that you are open and willing. You’ll also find it much less painful if you open up voluntarily. The muscles take less bludgeoning that way. There, relax." His eyes are full of hurt and disgust. I smile, and pat his thighs gently. "You’ll learn. You’ve already learned a great deal, and I’ll be beside you all the way, taking care of you, and guiding you into your new life. All you have to do is let go of the last one and accept that this is what you are now. It’s that simple."  
  
"I don’t think I’ll ever accept this," he hisses.  
  
"You will." I grab his buttocks, and begin thrusting into him, quite easily. This is nice. I like looking at him as I make love to him. His eyes register mute rebellion, but that’s irrelevant. One day they’ll look at me with love, and need. In time. I take the sex nice and slow. It’s very leisurely, and I can actually see him switching off. I slap his face lightly. "Keep in the moment, Mulder. We must work on keeping you with whoever you’re servicing. They might have special needs and you won’t be able to see to those needs if you’re off in some fantasy of your own."  
  
We really do have to break through his tendency to escape into his own thoughts during these sessions. He must understand what is being done to him in order to progress, and learn. Certainly at the moment he’s a hopeless lay. Very beautiful and arousing of course, but he’s just a lump of flesh, and his dislike and distaste for the proceedings are very evident in his eyes. Somebody else might find such expressions a turn off. Not me, of course, but our clients would have every right to complain about such sullen disgust.  
  
"Tell me what you’re thinking when I’m inside you," I prompt.  
  
"That it hurts. That I hate you," he replies, honestly enough.  
  
"That’s fine. I’m sure it does hurt. I’ll apply some cream later if you’re good."  
  
"Don’t you care that I hate you?" He asks.  
  
"No. It’s only temporary. You’ll come to love me in time."  
  
"You can’t make someone love you."  
  
"Oh, but of course you can. I have. On many occasions."  
  
"It isn’t love, Larry," he insists. "It’s fear."  
  
"Hush or I’ll have to punish you."  
  
I speed up my thrusts, grabbing his buttocks in both hands and he cries out in pain just as I cry out with pleasure in my climax. I lean over him, claiming a kiss, and he stares back full of exhausted loathing. I withdraw, and he slides back into the bath to wash himself, which is a mite insulting to me, but I let it pass on this occasion. It's only the first time he's consented to sex, after all. We have a long way to go yet, and there's plenty of time to teach him a few social niceties.  
  
He’s tired again. I’ve seen this before. The stress just wears them out. One minute they’re fine, and the next they droop. I help him over to the bed, and then anoint my hands with oil, before beginning to work gently on all his kinks. He’s too demoralized to protest, and his muscles soon relax under my expert ministrations. He’s stiff and sore in many places, and it takes quite some time to loosen him up, but I’m finally done.  
  
"I’m sure you’d like something to eat now," I tell him. He merely snorts, and buries his head in the pillow.  
  
"I can’t move, Larry," he says.  
  
"Sir." I slap his buttocks lightly, and he rolls over to look at me with those clear hazel eyes. Ah, it’s a shame to always keep these expressive orbs covered. In fact it's a shame that he has to be blindfolded at all.  
  
"What’s wrong with Larry?" he asks, gazing up at me with those limpid eyes. "Hasn’t anybody ever called you Larry?"  
  
"Thankfully no," I lie.  
  
"Not even as a kid?" I stiffen and get up. He really can be most disconcerting. "I can’t imagine you as a kid," he says. "Was this what you wanted to be when you grew up, Larry? Did you ever think you’d end up doing this for a living?"  
  
"Think? No. Fantasize…yes." I smile at him, maliciously, and his eyes widen.  
  
"Christ, Larry. What the hell happened to you as a kid if you were thinking of raping and torturing people at a young age?"  
  
"Mulder, your whip may be downstairs but it would take one of my dutymen only a few minutes to retrieve it. Do you want that?" I ask him. He purses his lips thoughtfully.  
  
"You know I don’t, Larry. I really don’t want that and I’m sorry if I upset you. I just like it when I can talk to you, properly, like we are doing now. You talk of making love, of being intimate. Isn’t this what lovers do? Don’t they talk about their lives?"  
  
Damn. It really would be so easy to talk to him. It’s true that my intimacies have always been a little…one sided.  
  
"On the subject of names, why don’t you like Fox?" I ask, a blatant deflection. It’s his turn to laugh now.  
  
"Who would like it?" He grins. "Christ, Larry, you have no idea what it’s like being forced to go around with such a name. It’s like a millstone around my neck."  
  
"And such a pretty neck it is. Such an interesting name. Such a cunning young fox cub." I trace a finger over his neck, and stroke under his chin, as if caressing a cat.  
  
"I bet the other kids called you Larry when you were young," he says. "Kids just do, don’t they? When I was a kid I prayed for a name you could shorten – it just made you sound like one of the gang. There was nothing you could do with Fox. Larry isn’t such a bad name though, is it? You must have been a cute kid. I bet your friends called you Larry."  
  
"I didn’t have any friends." I can feel my jaw tightening. Nobody has called me Larry for over forty years. Larry is the name of a boy I left behind a long time ago. Just the sound of that name reminds me of the bigger boys closing in, and surrounding me. I’m too small and skinny to fight the older boys in the home, and I’m a frequent target for their bullying. Maybe there's something about me that makes them hate me so. They’re standing over me, chanting my name, crowding me, jostling me, slapping, kicking, biting...  
  
"Larry?" He’s looking at me, seemingly concerned, but behind the concern I can see something else, something speculative. I can see that shining mind of his making intuitive leaps.  
  
"Don’t call me that."  
  
And yet, when he uses that name it doesn't sound like a taunt. It sounds almost…intimate. I slip my finger between his dry, cut lips, to shut him up, watching his reaction. He accepts the finger, even makes a play of sucking on it, but his heart clearly isn’t in it and there’s something else in those expressive hazel eyes. Something I’ve never seen in any of my recruits before, something that takes me a few seconds to recognize - pity. I pull my finger out, angrily, and slap him hard across the jaw.  
  
"Larry," he says, in a choking tone, grabbing my hand as I go to backhand him the other way. "Larry, I’m sorry. I want to be everything you want me to be, I really do. It’s just…" His eyes are full of darkness. "I don’t think I can. You see, I think I was broken once before, when they took my sister. I don’t think it can happen again. I think once it’s happened then that’s it. I think I saw all the darkness then. I looked into the night and saw the worst happening. Isn’t that what you’re selling here, Larry? Everybody’s fears about what they can take? I don’t mean to be difficult, but I found a kind of insane sanity after Sam left. It’s why they all call me ‘spooky’ – and it’s why it doesn’t matter that they do. It’s why none of it ever matters, not even what you’ve done to me. I’ve already been there. I’ve seen it, Larry. I’m not saying I’m impervious, or that it doesn’t hurt, I’m just saying that I don’t think you’ll be able to break me and that scares me, because if you can’t break me I think you’ll end up killing me trying to, and I don’t want that, Larry, and I don’t think you want it either."  
It’s a speech from the heart and he means every word. I sit down on the bed next to him, and take his head in my hands, looking down on that beautiful, suffering face.  
  
"I have to break you, darling," I tell him urgently. "You must see that, surely? I have to break you."  
  
"Why? Can’t I be the one who got away?" He reaches up to place his own shaking hands over mine.  
  
"No. I need this. I need you…to make it all worthwhile, to give it all a purpose. I need…"  
  
"Satisfaction? The knowledge that you’re the best? The gratitude of your masters? You have all that. You don’t need me as well."  
  
"Yes I do. You’ll be my greatest achievement in an illustrious career, my finest hour. The culmination of my life's work." And maybe he'll be enough. Maybe, in him, I'll finally find someone who is enough for me, someone who doesn't fill me with the profound sense of emptiness that all the others eventually came to do. I need to have him while I'm still at the height of my powers, before they inevitably start to fade. I need to find out.  
  
"Let me go, Larry. Just let me go," he urges softly. "Please. It can be our secret. You’ll be the stronger man for not going through with it."  
  
"But I have to go through with it," I whisper, caressing his face lovingly. "I have to break you, my dear boy, because you’re the ultimate challenge. I’ve read your file, I know all about you. I know you’ve studied in the most prestigious universities in the world, and passed all your exams with the highest grades. More than that, I’ve heard about you from so many sources. You wouldn’t believe the number of clients who’ve come to my salon wanting release after some run in or other with you. If I can break you, it’ll be such a triumph, it’ll prove that I’m not…" Damn him for being able to lure me into a conversation like this. I pull back.  
  
"Not what? Not getting old?" Ah, dear boy. He's close…but he doesn't quite understand. Nobody does, for I certainly haven't told anyone. He is gazing at me so intently…it's beautiful, like drowning. "Not losing your touch?" He presses, continuing with his theme. "What do I represent to you, Larry?"  
  
"Privilege, dear one." Looking into his eyes is like looking into the mirror of my own self-destruction. "You had everything I never had. I was also clever, but I didn’t have the advantages you did. I didn’t have your beauty, or your money, or your opportunities. I had to make it on my own, which is how I ended up here. Yes, I may be… growing old but I’ll go out with the knowledge that there was nobody I couldn’t break, you included. Dutyman," I turn, to speak over my shoulder, and the dutyman snaps to attention. "Send someone to fetch Mulder’s whip," I order and Mulder stiffens under me. The dutyman gives the command to his colleague in the other room, and then returns. "I’m going to break you piece by piece," I whisper softly, holding Mulder down, and gazing into his eyes. "It’s going to hurt but it’s going to be so good. The idea of you, kneeling broken by my side, is so intoxicating."  
  
"Because I’m some kind of authority figure to you?" He asks, puzzled. "Because I work for the government? Is that it? But that just makes me a symbol – and you can’t break a symbol, Larry."  
  
"No, but I can break flesh and blood, and that’s also what you are."  
  
"There’s something else. Something personal. Who else are you breaking when you break me, Larry? My father? My real father?"  
  
"Do you know who he is?" My fingers fasten around his throat, and tighten. "Do you have any idea who he is, Mulder?"  
  
"Yes. Yes I do. I think I know who he is. He’s the man you work for, your boss. That cigarette smoking son of a bitch."  
  
"You poor creature. You don’t even know his name. You don’t even know your own father’s name." I sit back and look at him, lying beneath me, lost and alone in the world, just as I once was. "That almost makes you an orphan. How does that feel? How does it feel to be cast out, unwanted by your father? Unloved? How does that feel?"  
  
"You tell me." He’s watchful, finding clues I really didn’t think I’d given away. Oh, I was right. I have met my match. He’s with me, every step of the way, and it’s exciting, and invigorating. Maybe Charles isn’t the only one suffering from 'old stag' syndrome. Maybe I needed this challenge on a deeper level than I realized. I look down on him and see a beautiful wild fox twisting under my taming hand, and now is the time to deliver a mortal blow to him, my enemy, my lover, my adversary. Careful, Laurence, in case he bites.  
  
"Your father ordered you to be brought here, and given to me," I tell him, and he crumples in front of me. "It’s true. Charles wanted you brought here, and broken. His own son, his own flesh and blood, and he wanted this done to you." He writhes, and tries to escape, but he’s too weak and I have him pinned, like the dangerous animal he is. "He’s even seen you while you’ve been here. Did you know that? He came to visit a few days after you arrived. He asked to see you. You were lying in your room, and I brought him to watch. He asked what I’d done to you, and I told him. He enjoyed hearing about it I think. Your own father cares so little about your suffering that he watched you being penetrated and tortured without lifting a finger to help. How does that feel, Mulder?"  
  
He's very still, his face white and pinched. "I wouldn’t expect anything else from him," he says in a thin, lost voice.  
  
"Ah, but you might have hoped. No wonder your lawyer’s strong arms were so appealing. Is he who you’d like to rescue you, Mulder? Your Walter Skinner? Do you still love him?"  
  
He makes no reply, just turns his face to the wall, away from my gaze. The dutyman comes back in, and hands me the whip. I run it over Mulder’s naked body, and then press the leather under his neck, forcing his chin up.  
  
"An answer please, Mulder. Do you want him to rescue you? Not Scully, not your strange geeky friends, not anybody else but him. He rejected you, just as your real father did, but you still want him to rescue you. How pathetic."  
  
He submits to being rolled onto his stomach, and doesn’t even move as the whip flails down on his unprotected body. He just lies there, mutely, his eyes closed, and takes every stroke. I don’t whip him for long because he’s not in any physical condition to take it, and when I’m finished I pull him up and drag him bodily over to the mirror. I stand behind him, propping him up, and he gazes, wide-eyed and horrified, at his reflection.  
  
"This is you, dear boy. This is Fox Mulder." I turn him slightly, so that he can see the long, red welts on his back and buttocks. "Not the agent, clad in his expensive suit, being offered the protection his status and ID gives him. This is you. Fox Mulder. This is what is underneath. He’s an outcast, from his family, and from society. Nobody cares about him. The one person he loved didn’t want him. Nobody else wants him except me. I’ll take care of him. I'm all he's got. Do you hear me, dear boy? I'm all you've got."  
  
He is slumped back against me, trembling, as he surveys his whipped, naked, degraded body in the mirror, taking in the cracked lips, the open sores, and the welts that liberally adorn his pale skin. "You never answered my question," I purr in his ear. "Do you still love him? Your Walter Skinner? Is he still there in your heart, even after all these years?"  
  
He looks at himself in the mirror, and then his eyes shift, and alight on me. "Yes," he says, miserably.  
  
"It’s all right." I put my arms around him, and hug him close. "Don’t worry. I’ll help you with that. I’ll erase him and put myself in his place, and then you’ll be happier. You can have someone who wants you, someone who won’t let you down. Doesn’t that sound good? Hmm?" He closes his eyes, and then opens them again, and gazes into the mirror as if he doesn’t recognize himself.  
  
"Yes," he whispers.  
  
"Good boy." I kiss his neck, one eye on the mirror to make sure he’s watching me do it. "Good, good boy. There, just let it go. You can do that. Come on." I take his hand and lead him towards the door.  
  
"Where are we going?" He asks, panic in his voice.  
  
"Just into the other room, dear boy," I soothe, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "Just into the other room for a bite to eat."  
  
*****  
  
The armchair at the far end of the salon was so familiar that for a moment Mulder hesitated, trying to perform some kind of reality check. He knew that floral patterned chair like the back of his own hand, better maybe for it was becoming clear to him that he didn’t know himself as well as he thought he did. He sat in the chair, and it settled around him like an old friend. He had become used to this as well, this feel of slightly scratchy upholstery against naked flesh. When had that happened, and how? When had it come to feel normal to be sitting without clothes in this parlor? There were no windows in the room. He hadn’t seen the sun or the outside world since he had been abducted. How many days had passed, he wondered? Had it been weeks even? It felt like a lifetime. He couldn’t imagine his old life now; going to work, coming home, eating pizza on his couch while watching some dreadful old sci-fi movie on TV. He dimly remembered being able to come and go as he pleased, being strong, independent, and agile, and not feeling pain, and hunger, and sheer, wretched misery all the time, but it seemed so long ago. Being tied, being told when to eat and when to perform the most basic of bodily functions; that was what his soul struggled against, even more than the abuse. It robbed him of himself, of his ability to run his own life, as all this relentless questioning was robbing him of his individuality. He felt as if he was putting himself on a platter, and offering it up to his captor piece by piece.  
  
There was a plate of sandwiches on the table beside his chair. He looked at them, disinterested in them as food, but aware that he had to eat in order to stay alert. His captor had followed him into the room, and he sat in his usual place, on the couch in front of the fire, blocking any heat from reaching Mulder. The other man was wearing a long, silk robe, covered in dark brown amoebic swirls. It was open a little at the neck, revealing a scrawny neck, and again at the leg, showing two pale, stick-like limbs. This was the body that had raped him. This was the body that he had been held against, and caressed by. Mulder’s hand, containing a sandwich, stopped on its way to his mouth, and, without warning, he found himself retching, his body convulsing but bringing up nothing.  
  
"My poor boy. What was that about?" He felt Laurence’s long, thin, perpetually cold fingers on his naked shoulder, stroking him as he retched pointlessly and pathetically towards the carpet. A cup of water was pressed to his lips and he swallowed, gratefully. An image of a cock in his mouth, and semen running down his throat rose unbidden into his mind, and he retched again. It wasn’t a response he could help. He fought it, but the bile burned in his throat.  
  
"My poor darling boy." Laurence crouched in front of him, his hands on Mulder’s shoulders, and kissed his forehead between convulsions. "Never mind. I’m here. There, there." Skeletal fingers brushed sweat-soaked hair off his face. Mulder thought of those fingers inside his body, thought of them caressing his nipples and stroking his thighs as this man raped him. He could feel the hard surface of the Jacuzzi under his buttocks, and the gentle warmth of the water swirling around his ankles as this man had thrust into him, with his own collusion. Making love he called it. Making love…  
  
"Stop it now," Laurence ordered, as another wave of nausea convulsed the agent. Mulder gave a choking laugh.  
  
"How?" He asked. "You can make me do many things, Larry, but you can’t command the natural functions of my body."  
  
"But of course I can." Laurence smiled. "Do you want me to fetch your whip and prove it to you?"  
  
They stared at each other, faces so close as to be almost touching. Mulder swallowed his bile with a great effort of will, and forced himself to sit up straight, to present an illusion of dignity to his captor.  
  
"No," he whispered.  
  
"Good boy." Laurence kneaded his cold fingers into Mulder’s flesh, and Mulder closed his eyes, fighting the nausea, because if he didn’t fight it he would be whipped again and he couldn’t take any more pain. Pain, or rather avoiding it, obsessed him. It was all he thought about. The memory of his reflection in the mirror caused him to fight another shuddering, stomach-churning bout of nausea. He had barely recognized the man he had seen standing there. His skin was paler than he could ever remember seeing it before, his eyes stark, staring at him as if he was a stranger. His body was covered in marks that changed daily, creating a new network of blemishes that he couldn’t keep track of. This body, once so familiar and unchanging, had become alien to him. He had become the ‘other’ now, and he was no longer sure who he was. Maybe Laurence had been right. Stripped of his suit, and his badge, of the paraphernalia and trappings of his everyday persona, this was what he was underneath, and it was an ugly sight. He had always had a certain self-belief, which he knew sometimes came over to other people as arrogance, although that wasn’t how he felt, or what he intended. His job had set him aside from others, created a feeling that he was different, maybe even special in some way. Now though, he knew he was not. Underneath he was weak, and all too human. He was nothing special. He would sell himself for food, for comfort, and for relief from pain as fast as any other man.  
  
Laurence got up, and went to sit beside the fire again while Mulder tried to concentrate, and to breathe. In this game of wits, he had so few weapons. He had to somehow manage to stay alert.  
  
"Did you like sleeping in my bed, Mulder?" Laurence asked.  
  
"It’s better than being tied," Mulder replied, with a shrug.  
  
"You can sleep in comfort, untied, more often, if you learn to co-operate." Laurence smiled at him. Mulder had an image of an almost hairless pigeon-chest and sunken ribs, leaning over him as a blunt cock invaded his body. He saw old flesh sagging on sharp bones, scrawny, almost wasted, and, strangely, paler than his own shocked skin.  
  
"You should sit out more, in the sun," Mulder said, surprising himself. Laurence frowned. "You’re too pale." Mulder remembered visiting his grandmother in a nursing home shortly before she’d died. She had been a tiny, frail old lady, and he had been just a boy. She smelled of urine, rose water, and something he could only define as the absence of sunlight. She had already relinquished her claim on this world. She had spent her last few days muttering to herself where she lay in her bed, meaningless words. Her mind had already passed over and was waiting for her ailing body to catch up. "Isn't there a garden here?" Mulder asked, just trying to talk. If he talked he wouldn’t be sent back downstairs, and if he talked he wouldn't have to think. After what had just happened in the bedroom, Mulder really didn't want to think.  
  
"Fishing for details?" Laurence asked, his eyes twinkling incongruously.  
  
"Just wondering. Don't you ever go outside? My grandmother had skin like yours - she was too ill to go out for years, and her skin was pale and gossamer thin."  
  
"Your grandmother - did she love you?" Laurence asked.  
  
"I barely knew her. She was old and lived a long way away. I was just a child." Mulder shrugged.  
  
"That’s a shame. Grandparents can be such a blessing when parents lead busy lives," Laurence murmured, taking a sip of his tea.  
  
Mulder stole a glance at his tormentor. He had just little glimpses of an overall picture, and he knew that if he were well, and if this were an X File, he would be putting these pieces together better than he was doing right now. It was hard when he hurt so much though, when his emotions were so involved, and his body was red raw from abuse. He had learned some things about his captor but they were merely parts of a whole, pieces in the jigsaw. Laurence was probably either an orphan, or had been abandoned by his parents, and had almost certainly spent some of his early years in a children’s home. Maybe he had been looked after by a beloved grandparent in the absence of his parents, and had only had to go into the home when he or she had died. It was just guesswork, and yet Mulder had an intuition that he was close to the truth. His intuition rarely let him down. Sometimes he felt a kind of empathy for people he had profiled, or was investigating. It wasn’t sympathy, for their crimes often revolted him, but he had a knack of somehow understanding the way their minds worked, and of leaping towards a hypothesis that he couldn’t explain, but he just felt. His skills had made him a maverick in an institution more used to knocking on doors, asking questions, and following a procedure intended for less gifted agents. Gifted. He didn’t feel very gifted right now. His mind felt as slow and leaden as his body. He felt tired, old, and useless.  
  
"Tell me about Walter Skinner," his captor said, as if sensing his weakness.  
  
Mulder laughed. "I’ve told you. It was a long time ago. It only lasted for a few months. It’s over."  
  
"But not in your heart. Not inside you. Why do you think that is? I’m surprised. He abandoned you. He walked out on you."  
  
"That wasn’t it…not entirely." Mulder closed his eyes, fighting the pain of remembering.  
  
"Ah, what was it then? Entirely," Laurence demanded, for it was a demand, despite the urbanity of the request.  
  
"I was the one who pushed him away, long before he walked out. He knew what he wanted, but I didn’t. He was older, and he was prepared to risk everything for me, but I got scared. Being homosexual wasn’t how I viewed myself." Mulder hesitated, trying to remember the way he had felt back then. It had been so long ago, but the emotions were still clear to him, stupid and misguided though they were. "I didn’t like being labeled. I still don’t. I got scared. We had long conversations about it, but they ended in arguments. He was the one with the big career, and he was prepared to risk everything to be with me, but I didn’t want him to do that. I was young. I didn’t want to have the responsibility for having screwed up his life. I behaved badly, got skittish I guess. The problem was that it was too intense for both of us. Neither of us had really been in love before. We were both freaked by it. I wasn't used to being loved…I pushed him away. He didn’t walk out on me, I had already packed my own bag – he just had the guts to end it first."  
  
"And by doing so he remains the perfect lover in your mind. Your relationship ended when it was at its most intense. You can’t move on from it," Laurence murmured, thoughtfully.  
  
Mulder finished the sandwich he was chewing, and nodded. He didn’t mind talking if it spared him the solitude of that room, and the pain that came with it…He thought he feared the solitude almost more than the pain right now. There was so much he didn’t want to think about after his last conversation with Laurence. He would prefer to think about his troubled history with Skinner than remember what he had learned about his own parentage.  
  
"That must have made working with him hard," Laurence commented.  
  
Mulder shrugged. "At first maybe. He was torn between protecting me and showing me that our long-dead relationship didn’t mean a fuck to him. He used to pull the Big Bad Boss routine on me in the beginning – jerk off assignments, punishment details…and I kind of forced him into it. We were still playing out where we were when our relationship ended. I reverted to brat mode, and he compensated by showing me he wasn’t going to be fucked around with in the office the way I’d fucked him around 13 years before. The affection was still there though, underneath it all. He looked out for me…and I…I just wanted him to notice me," Mulder muttered. It sounded pathetic, even to his own ears. If he’d wanted Skinner, why hadn’t he just said or done something – anything – to begin it all again? Was he really such a coward? "As the years passed we kind of colluded in pretending it had never happened, or if it had, that it didn’t matter. We were both beyond it."  
  
"But you weren’t," Laurence observed.  
  
"Apparently not." Mulder shrugged.  
  
"Would you like to be?"  
  
That question took Mulder by surprise. He looked at his captor, puzzled, trying to understand. Laurence had a thoughtful expression on his face.  
  
"I could do that for you," he said, and it sounded like being seduced by the devil. "I could take away the pain, and the need. I could take Walter Skinner out of your heart. Would you like that?"  
  
"No." Mulder moistened his lips with his tongue, nervously.  
  
"Ah, you’re afraid. It would, of course, be painful, but I could still do it." Laurence took a bite out of his cookie, caught the resulting crumbs neatly in his hand, and deposited them in his saucer. Mulder noted that not one single crumb fell on the floor.  
  
"No," Mulder repeated quietly, suddenly both very scared and very sure.  
  
"A pity." Laurence shrugged. "I had hoped we could do this with your permission, but we will be doing it anyway. You see, my dear boy, we can’t form new allegiances while you still hang on to old ones. We need to purge your affection for the past, and create new affiliations."  
  
"No." It was almost a whisper now. Mulder didn’t think he could live without the pain of a love he had carried, half-buried inside, for so many years. He was too used to the comforting ache of it, and more than that, he didn’t know what he would be without it. It was part of him. It defined him. It held him together. If Laurence started re-writing parts of his psyche, changing his emotions and memories on such a radical scale, then he would cease to be Mulder, and become someone else. He felt himself start to shiver, partly with cold, and partly with fear, and wrapped his arms around his body for comfort as much as for warmth.  
  
"Poor boy. You could come and sit with me," Laurence offered. Mulder shuddered, which increased the trembling in his limbs.  
  
"I don’t think so," he hissed.  
  
"Ah, you’re remembering the last time. Well, I thought that all happened far too soon and of course it’s obvious that on that occasion you came to me because you had an ulterior motive. When you next come, you’ll do so freely, of your own volition, and then we can begin to make some progress. Dutyman!" Laurence snapped his fingers at one of the two men stationed by the door, and Mulder looked up, his eyes fearful.  
  
"Please. I’m still talking. We’re talking. I’m co-operating," he said, glancing nervously at the dutyman who was crossing the room towards him.  
  
"Oh, my darling boy, of course you aren’t!" Laurence exclaimed. "You refused my little suggestion three times, and then decided not to sit with me. I hardly think that constitutes co-operation – do you?"  
  
"Don’t take me back down there." Mulder found that his throat had gone dry, and his stomach had contracted so sharply that he almost vomited up the contents of the meal he had just eaten.  
  
"Well I must of course. Not to the Recreation Room – well at least not unless you misbehave very badly indeed. No, just back to your room. It's been lovely spending time with you up here, but you’re making me weary now. You’re such a stubborn boy. I want you to be much more biddable. Do you think you could manage that next time you return to the salon? Hmm?"  
  
"If you send me back there I’ll fucking kill you." Mulder couldn’t stop himself. He was beyond pretense, beyond anything but raw honesty. His fear of pain was making him mad. Pain had always made him angry, whether it was emotional or physical. He had been furious with Walter for years, furious with his mother – even furious with Samantha sometimes. When he was hurt, he needed to fight back, to show defiance. He knew it wasn’t wise, knew that he might suffer for another outburst, but desperation made him throw caution to the winds.  
  
"Kill me?" Laurence raised an eyebrow. His perfectly lacquered hair didn’t move as he shook his head, his tongue making a 'tutting' sound as he did so. "Nonsense, darling boy. You can’t kill me. I know so many of your secrets. It would be like killing a part of yourself."  
  
"You’re deluded. Completely crazy. Is this your strategy? If you tell a lie often enough, and with enough conviction, that it’ll become the truth? Like the so-called ‘intimacy’? The ‘love-making’? They’re just euphemisms for rape and you know it – or do you believe it inside that cold, embittered heart?"  
  
One of the dutymen’s strong hands descended on Mulder’s shoulders while the other dutyman started fastening his wrists to his belt.  
  
"What the fuck happened to you, Larry?" Mulder yelled as they tied him down, while he struggled with every ounce of his fading strength to delay the inevitable. "Did your parents abandon you? Is that why you can wield that ice pick of a mind of yours with such efficiency against people like me, and Krycek? You said he was an orphan – is that why you enjoyed breaking him so much? Did he remind you of yourself? Do I remind you of yourself? Can you climb inside my pain so efficiently because it’s your own? Huh?"  
  
There was no reply. Laurence merely got to his feet, and brushed non-existent crumbs from his robe. There was no expression in his violet eyes as he gestured with his head in the direction of the door.  
  
"Tie him with maximum discomfort and reduce the temperature in his room. A little harsh bondage in a freezing room might cool him down."  
  
Mulder howled in anguish as the blindfold was slipped over his eyes again, depriving him of that most basic of his senses. He wasn’t going to go back down there. He couldn’t.  
  
"I’ll fucking kill you one day," he swore.  
  
"No, my dear boy, you won’t," Laurence replied, in a soft, knowing tone. "You can’t." A hand molded itself around one of his buttocks, and squeezed, in a patronizing, dismissive gesture, and then he was hauled away.  
  
They tied him so tight that he could barely breathe. They pushed his legs backwards, over his chest, and tied them down over his shoulders, then they tied his arms over the back of his knees, each of them pulled in the opposite direction, half out of their sockets. He felt like a chicken trussed up in a shop window, his ass exposed to the world, his body tied with harsh, cutting ropes.  
  
"You can’t leave me like this!" he cried from between his legs. "Can’t…breathe…" He heard footsteps returning to his side, and thought, with relief, that they would loosen the bonds, but instead he heard the sound of the hose and a moment later he was sprayed with icy cold water. He was both unable to breathe in the stream of the jet, and unable to move away from it, and the water made the rope contract even tighter around his body, digging into his flesh painfully. Finally the onslaught stopped, and the footsteps went away, leaving him reeling and gasping for air. His muscles had been stretched and contorted to such an extent that they cramped, and the resulting pain gave him the merciful oblivion of unconsciousness.  
  
He came to with a start, wondered for a moment where he was, and why he hurt so much, and then remembered, giving a low cry of abject despair. He was still blindfolded, and he panicked, fighting his bonds. The claustrophobia of the unbearably tight binding made him choke incoherently. It hurt to struggle, but staying still hurt just as much. His muscles screamed their protest, making it impossible to think of anything except pain and discomfort. He was freezing. His entire body felt blue with cold and poor circulation as a result of the tight ropes that were cutting into his flesh. They couldn’t leave him like this. He’d die. Calming himself, he reasoned that they had to be watching him. The mirror…they were watching him through that. They wouldn’t let him die, but they’d let him suffer.  
  
Mulder tried to relax and switch off, but it was so hard when he hurt so much, and he didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts, because then he might remember the one thing he was trying so hard not to think about. Not to think. NOT to think…He hummed as loudly as he could, and tried to escape into the past, but the pain in his muscles and the freezing cold kept him firmly locked in the present. He heard a faint hum of machinery, and realized, without surprise, that air conditioning was keeping him so cold.  
  
"Fucking bastard," he yelled, fighting his bonds again, pointlessly, he knew, but his defiance was all he had that was making him human right now, trussed as he was like an animal on a slab. Lying here, on display…through the mirror…NOT thinking about that…through the mirror…a face that had a name, a hated enemy who had become flesh and blood…not thinking…Charles…a name…after all these years the monster had a name…and the monster/father had been here, watching…Charles. Father. Daddy. Charles. In his mind’s eye he saw the man behind the mirror, shrouded by a cloud of cigarette smoke, watching him as he lay here, being broken apart piece by piece. Had Laurence been telling the truth, or had it just been a lie calculated to cause maximum damage to his psyche? In his pain and loneliness, Mulder saw a stark truth that he would have gone to the ends of the earth to avoid, a truth that he had known in his heart for a very long time; his greatest enemy was a part of himself, his own flesh and blood.  
  
Mirrors reflected back only what was truly there. He saw himself, standing in Laurence’s bedroom, gazing into his captor's mirror, and in that sunken, ravaged visage he saw traces of a man he loathed. His father. Himself. How much was he his father’s son? What exactly was the nature of his genetic inheritance? His body convulsed again, a silent, confined spasm, but this time with grief, as he recalled Laurence’s words. His father had sent him here. His own father had arranged his current agony. What kind of a man could do that to anyone - but especially to his own son? When he thought of the years he’d spent trying to win the love of the wrong man he ached from the inside out. He had never stood a chance. No matter what he did or said, Bill Mulder wouldn’t have loved him, because he wasn’t his. And Samantha…Samantha had been taken because she was Bill Mulder’s daughter, and he had been allowed to stay because he was Charles’s son…and Charles had already given up one child - Jeffrey. Biology had spared Mulder then, just as biology was condemning him now. As his father had lost one son, so he was now trying to mold the other into a worthy successor. Mulder finally understood that there was more at stake here than he had even begun to comprehend. This wasn't just about breaking a recalcitrant enemy. This was about so much more than merely that; his father wanted a worthy heir to his evil conspiracy, and would clearly stop at nothing to get one.  
  
Mulder’s own thoughts tortured him as much as the ropes biting into his skin. He longed for the comfort of oblivion, and would have sold his soul for release, or unconsciousness, but neither came. There was just him, in the dark, in the freezing cold, struggling to breathe, his body tied in an impossible muddle of ropes and flesh, his muscles screaming to be cut loose. He had hit a wall somewhere in his mind, and he couldn’t get beyond it. He tried humming, tried escaping into the past, back to the bookstore and one summer a long time ago when he had been happy, but those memories were just out of his reach. He could sense his lover standing in the dark, just barely, imperceptibly there.  
  
"I deserve this," he whispered. "I’m sorry." The darkness lightened a little, and he felt his lover move closer, listening intently. "I’ve been angry with you for years but it wasn’t all your fault. A lot of it was mine. I didn’t trust you to be around forever so I pushed you away. I’m sorry."  
  
"Doesn’t matter." His lover’s voice was low, soft and gentle. He moved into Mulder’s field of vision and Mulder could have wept. His lover was dizzyingly young. Unchanged. Red shirt, black jeans, dark, curly hair. "Forgot you had hair. You could be two different people. Then and now," Mulder commented. "Sometimes forget you even are the same person. Him, and you. I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t behaved like a jerk back then, if we’d stayed together. Do you think it would have lasted?"  
  
"You were just a kid. You needed to grow up." His lover was standing right next to him now. He was exactly as Mulder remembered him. Same solemn dark eyes, this time not hidden behind the wirerims. "Forgot you didn’t wear your glasses back then. Didn’t need them." Mulder smiled.  
  
"No, I did need them. I was just being vain." His lover grinned. Straight, white, impossibly perfect teeth behind sensuous, inviting lips. "Too many years poring over legal texts day and night – ruined my eyesight."  
  
"I’m sorry," Mulder said again. "I screwed everything up. I don’t know why. I was so stupid. If it means anything, I always regretted it."  
  
"I was as much to blame. We were both too stupid to talk about it. Too macho to admit we were in love." His lover shrugged, in that self-deprecating way Mulder had almost forgotten.  
  
"You’ve changed," he murmured. "Now, you’re still driven, but less…restless. You weren’t sure of yourself then. Where you were going, what you wanted to do with your life. You had so much less certainty…but more energy. That famous Walter iron determination was there though. I guess you’re thinking I’ve changed too, huh?"  
  
His lover just smiled, and caressed the side of Mulder’s face with blunt, tanned fingers. Mulder turned his cheek towards his lover, and drifted off in a haze of comfort.  
  
"Larry says I should be punished and he’s right. I deserve this. Not just for you, but for all of it. Always fucking with people’s lives. Started when I was born. Before I was born maybe. Larry might be right about that as well. I wasn’t supposed to be born. Maybe Mom married Dad because she was pregnant and had to marry someone, and my real father wouldn’t accept his responsibilities. Maybe I screwed up her life just by coming into existence. Different times, different attitudes. Mom and Dad were never happy…wasn't surprised when they divorced…just surprised they stayed together so long. Always arguing." His lover didn’t say anything, just watched, thoughtfully, still stroking Mulder’s face. "No wonder Dad…Bill Mulder…Dad…no wonder he and I never really connected. I screwed up his life too. And Samantha. He must have hated me for being the one they left behind. They took his own flesh and blood and left him with the son-who-wasn’t. My fault. My real father wants an heir in his own image. This was always my birthright…what I’m due…what I deserve. Fucked up so many lives. Men have died because of me…good men, just trying to help. First informant…I liked him. I wonder if he knew I wasn’t Bill Mulder’s son? Then Scully…Christ, she got cancer because of me. Don’t know how she can stand to look at me. Her brother said it straight, and he was right. Told me what a fucking bastard I am. One sister dead…another one dying. He was so fucking right. Screwed up his whole family. And you know, I knew how he felt. I also lost a sister. I knew how he fucking felt." His voice rose an octave, and he could feel the panic rising inside.  
  
"Hey, it’s okay. Take it easy. I'm here." His lover flashed that familiar, knockout smile.  
  
"You don’t smile any more," Mulder murmured. "Did I take that away from you? I’d love to see you smile again. I remember it…used to give me a hard-on when you smiled at me sometimes. Just a smile…killer smile."  
  
There was silence for a long time, and he thought maybe his lover had gone, but when he looked, he found he was still there, maybe a little faded around the edges, but still there.  
  
"Did you love your wife?" Mulder asked, but the apparition just stood there, not speaking. "I was jealous as hell when I found out about her. Were you too scared to tell me? Then when I met her, I liked her. When she said you talked about me…made me feel warm inside. Stupid, crazy hope. You’re not really here are you?"  
  
"Ssh. It’s okay."  
  
"Am I dying? I want to die."  
  
"You’re not dying."  
  
"I deserve to die."  
  
"No. You don’t deserve any of this."  
  
"Do you still love me?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
His lover’s warm lips touched his forehead, and Mulder turned his face to receive a kiss on his mouth. His lover bent close, and he was so near that Mulder could smell him. Closer, closer…big strong arms, red shirt…dark hair…almost there…Mulder gave a scream of pure pain as his lover was ripped away, winking out of existence in the blink of an eye, as rough hands brought him back to reality. His bonds were cut, and his legs wrenched back down so brutally and swiftly that he passed out from the pain as blood flowed back into the cramped muscles.  
  
He was dragged to the salon, unable to walk, drifting in and out of consciousness the whole time, and then he was dumped on a carpet, and his blindfold was removed. He lay, huddled where he had fallen, his muscles too traumatized to move.  
  
"Ah, the prodigal returns – well rested I hope?" Laurence’s voice. Cultured, urbane, and utterly cruel.  
  
"Fuck off."  
  
"Ah, not very co-operative I see. That’s a shame. I had hoped you’d be talkative."  
  
"I’m not fucking co-operating any more. Just kill me. I don’t care." Mulder buried his head in his arms, feeling a new resolution inside. He wasn’t going to let this bastard tunnel into his mind any more. He’d rather die. He had stopped thinking about survival mechanisms and just wanted it to end.  
  
"Well we won’t kill you of course. That isn’t in my plans at all," Laurence said. "Sit up."  
  
"Can’t."  
  
"There’s food."  
  
"Didn’t you hear me, old man? I don’t fucking care. I want to die."  
  
"Unfortunately that isn’t an option. Sit up."  
  
Mulder moved his head. He could feel the fire on his arm, warming his cold flesh. He gazed at his arm, dappled in the dancing shadows from the fire, and wondered at the simplicity and comfort of warmth. He was so cold, but moving closer to the fire meant moving close to Laurence, and as far as Mulder was concerned that wasn't an option. Laurence was sitting in his usual place, on the couch in front of the fire. On the small table beside him were two plates, two cups, and two helpings of food. Mulder glanced over at his armchair, and saw that there was no food on the table next to it. The only food was beside Laurence. "You can sit with me, in the warmth, and eat, and talk, or you can go back downstairs. What is your choice?" Laurence asked.  
  
"I told you. I don’t fucking care." Mulder didn’t move.  
  
"Ah, you’re so full of your own suffering. It’s a pitiful sight. I’m disappointed in you, Mulder. You’re behaving in such a commonplace way. I had expected more. Giving up…it’s so ordinary."  
  
"Sorry for not being entertaining. Sorry for not behaving like some fucking performing monkey," Mulder growled.  
  
"Well at least we’re getting to see the real Mulder. He’s a bit pathetic isn’t he?" Laurence’s voice was hard, and mocking. "Mulder, I’m going to give you a choice. My dutymen are looking bored and in need of some R&R. You can stay with me, or you can go with them. What's it to be?"  
  
Mulder licked his lips. He glanced over to the dutymen who were exchanging looks, eyes alight at the prospect of imminent amusement. His resolve wavered for a second, and then returned, stronger than ever.  
  
"Listen to me, old man. I don’t care what you do to me. I’m out of the game."  
  
"But of course you aren’t." Laurence smiled, a vicious, deadly smile. "You’re just trying a new strategy, and regrettably you will learn the hard way that it won’t work."  
  
Mulder laughed out loud. "It isn’t a fucking strategy, you scrawny, ugly bastard. Kill me. Hurt me. Do what the fuck you want with me, but I’m not playing any more. Got that?"  
  
"Ah, you really do want to hang on to your young lawyer don’t you?" Laurence said, surprising Mulder by this change of tactics. "How sweet." His tormentor stood up, and adjusted his pants so that the creases hung in neat folds down the center. He came over to Mulder, his shiny shoes stopping by Mulder’s cheek, and then knelt. He grabbed a handful of Mulder’s hair, and pulled his head back, his cold fingers holding Mulder in a vise-like grip.  
  
"Let me put you straight on a few facts, Mulder," Laurence said, in a voice Mulder had never heard before, a voice that was cold, flat, and ruthless, stripped of its usual teasing banter. "You and he were just two promiscuous young men having a roll in the hay for a few months one summer a long time ago. It wasn’t a great love affair, it was just sex. Fucking. He dumped you. That’s all it was." He pushed Mulder’s head back, and then let it drop, as if even touching Mulder disgusted him. "What a loser you are. Building up your pathetic rutting into some kind of emotional tour de force. He probably forgot all about you within hours of walking out. Three or four months – that’s all you had. He was with his wife for years. You were just his last piece of ass before he decided to go straight. It wasn’t a big deal for him. It was just a sordid, squalid, cheap screw. Get over it."  
  
Mulder swallowed hard and gazed, unblinking, at his tormentor. "Fuck off and die, Larry," he ground out.  
  
Laurence ran a hand over his hair, as if checking to see if his sudden movement had dislodged a strand from the stiff, lacquered mass. He glanced over to his dutymen, and smiled.  
  
"He’s all yours," he said.  
  
Mulder was picked up bodily, and dragged towards the door.  
  
"Oh, you might need this." Laurence stopped them, holding out the long, flat whip that Mulder recognized as his own. The thin leather was already worn down in places. Mulder wondered how long he had been here, shuddering as the whip changed hands, and then his blindfold was back in place and he was being propelled bodily out into the corridor. Struggling was pointless. His muscles were hardly responding to his commands in any case. He was taken down flights of stairs, but instead of going in the direction he had become accustomed to, the dutymen took a left instead, along another carpeted hallway, and then into a room he knew he’d never been in before. The floor was concrete, and cold under his feet. He was pushed down onto his knees, and then the blindfold was removed. He was kneeling in the center of a large room. There was a pool table in the corner, a TV screen to one side, and a small galley kitchen at the far end. Four men were seated around a large table off to the side, with cards in their hands. The two dutymen who had brought him down were standing over him, smug smiles on their faces.  
  
"The boss says we can play," one of them said, and the others grinned and put their cards down, surveying Mulder with some interest.  
  
"Is this the little shit who nearly blinded Mark?" One of them asked, getting up.  
  
"Yeah. I think he needs to learn some manners, don’t you?"  
  
"You don’t need to do this," Mulder said softly, wondering if it was even worth trying to reason with them.  
  
"Oh yeah. I think we do. The boss doesn’t let us play on our own very often. We have some special games we save for in here," a stocky, dark haired dutyman said, with a lingering leer. "Move the table, Rick. Let’s party."  
  
Mulder swallowed hard. His resolve to die seemed like the idiotic posturing of a lunatic now. Death would be welcome, but death wasn’t on offer, and never had been. He forced his muscles to work, got shakily to his feet, and backed away from the men who were crowding towards him.  
  
"Look, I’m an FBI agent. When they find me…"  
  
"Nobody’s going to find you," one of the dutymen laughed. "Now, let me explain the game to you. See that door over there?" He pointed. Mulder glanced at the door through which he had been brought in. "It’s not locked. If you can get there, and get out, then you win and you can go back to your room. Understand?"  
  
Mulder moistened his lips and nodded, nervously.  
  
"Okay, but in order to make it a bit more fun we’re going to blindfold you. Now, we’re all going to stand very still. But if you come within arm’s reach on your way to the door, then you’re fair game."  
  
"Sounds like the odds are stacked against me then," Mulder said, glancing around at the 6 men in the room. "I don’t stand a fucking chance."  
  
"Oh a fucking chance is exactly what you stand," one of the dutymen said, to ribald laughter from the others. Mulder stood still as his blindfold was replaced, and he was turned around and around, to disorient him, so that he no longer even knew where the door was. He had told Laurence he wasn’t going to play and he meant it. If they were going to rape him then they’d do it anyway. He wasn’t putting on any kind of show for them. He stood still, refusing to move.  
  
The first sting of the whip on his shoulder took him by surprise, and he moved, involuntarily, a step to the right. He felt the brush of fingertips on his arm, and jumped back, quickly, the other way, then stopped again. The whip lashed across his buttocks, and he tried to hold position, but another stinging blow shattered his resolve and he hopped forwards, away from the strokes…and straight into a pair of outstretched arms. "He’s mine!" someone growled triumphantly, and he found himself pushed onto his knees, his legs being kicked apart. Someone held his arms so he couldn’t move, and then his ass cheeks were being pried apart. He heard someone spit, and then wet fingers were pushed into his ass. They were quickly replaced by a hard cock. He felt warm breath on his neck, and struggled pointlessly against his captors, but he couldn’t escape, and he was raped hard and fast, until his captor was done, and then he was dropped to the floor, the semen dripping down his thighs. He knelt, panting and gasping for air, and was kicked in the ribs.  
  
"Up. Time to run again," a voice said. Mulder didn’t know which one of them was speaking and he didn't care. They were all the same. He didn’t move, and the whip crashed down on his back, making him grunt in pain.  
  
"I said, up!" the dutyman snarled, grabbing a fistful of Mulder’s hair and forcing him onto his unsteady feet.  
  
Mulder made one futile, desperate attempt to run for where he thought the door was. He made it as far as a wall, and his fingers scrabbled for the door, when he blundered once more into grasping hands. He fought this time, fought with all his energy and what was left of his strength, biting, and kicking and scratching, but they overpowered him, as he had always known they would, and this time, when they finally had him pinned down, they took their turns in his ass, each ceding his place to the next when they were done. What hurt more than the rapes was how slowly and carefully they went about their brutality. Obviously they had orders not to damage him too much, and the fact that they could be so calculating while inflicting such degradation upon him made him choke with his own despair.  
  
When they finally finished with him, he just lay there. Nothing made him move – not the whip, or the numerous kicks he received. He just curled his body into a tight ball and welcomed the pain, hoping he could somehow goad them into giving him the death that was proving so elusive.  
  
"Do it…kill me," he instructed them through gritted teeth. "Come on, you spineless bastards – what’s the matter, is one defenseless man too hard for you to kill? Do it!"  
  
He felt his grip on consciousness fading again, welcoming it, but the kicks, and the whipping stopped abruptly, and he screamed out loud at being robbed of his oblivion.  
  
"The boss would have our hides if we killed you," a voice said in his ear. "Shame. Still, there’s one last bit of fun we can have with you."  
  
He wrapped his arms around his knees, steeling himself for what would come next, but nothing prepared him for the reality of it. He felt warmth trickling down his back, and at first thought it was his own blood, but then he realized they were urinating on him. A cry rose and died in his throat. He had reached the end. Surrounded by a howling mob, being pissed on as if he was nothing, not human, not a man at all, but something to be attacked, raped and humiliated. He was the ‘other’, a scapegoat, and focus for hatred. It had a curious sense of inevitability to it. Mulder closed his eyes, and wept silently and dryly behind his blindfold.  
  
"You were right about human nature," his lover said, crouching beside him, his red shirt the only part of him Mulder could see. "I was wrong. I do think everybody is like me - that they must know, intellectually, the consequences of their own actions and take responsibility for them. I see things in the black and white of justice, and the letter of the law. You see something deeper…you understand the whys and wherefores, the motivation of evil."  
  
"Lord of the Flies," Mulder replied, with a twisted grin. "There's a kid in that book…Simon…the other kids killed him for being different. I read that book as a child, and I guess, ever since then…I've always been waiting for them to come for me."  
  
"Being different isn't a crime. One of the things I love about you is that you are different," his lover murmured softly, lovingly, in his ear. "The law protects your right to be as you are. I protect it. I'll protect you."  
  
"Yes, I know. But you aren't here," Mulder reminded him.  
  
He lost track of the time. He knew that he was taken back to his room, and tied, still reeking of urine. Later, a long time later, he was hosed down with cold water, and walked back up to the salon, where he was dumped, once again, on the floor, and his blindfold was whisked away from him, leaving him to face a light he could hardly endure.  
  
"Oh dear," Laurence said, sounding for all the world as if there had been a minor mishap with his laundry. "Oh dear, dear, dear. What a sight. Do you still think, my darling boy, that it’s better to defy me than to obey me?"  
  
"You’ll hurt me either way," Mulder muttered, wondering if this was even real. He wasn’t sure he could tell what was real and what wasn’t any more.  
  
"Well that’s true, but if it’s me, then you know that there won’t be any kind of mindless brutality, and that’s a comfort isn’t it? You know that I’ll take care of you, and help you bear what must be. You know you have someone to confide in, someone who’ll listen, and someone who loves you. You’d rather be with me than with them, I think. Yes?"  
  
Mulder swallowed hard. He could smell something delicious and his stomach contracted, rumbling loudly, his mouth watering involuntarily.  
  
"It’s a casserole. You must be hungry. It’s been a long time since you ate. Now, just answer my question and then you can have all the food, and drink, and warmth that you want. You prefer being with me, don’t you?"  
  
Mulder saw his lover bending over him, helping him to sit. "It’s all right," his lover said, holding Mulder’s face in both his hands, and looking into his eyes.  
  
"You’d rather be with me than anybody else in the world right now. You’d rather be with me than with the dutymen, or Doctor Scully…or Walter Skinner."  
  
Mulder shivered. He was cold, and he needed to rest. If only he could get warm. He remembered Laurence’s bed with a horrified shudder of longing.  
  
"Just one word. You’d rather be with me, wouldn’t you, Mulder?" Laurence pressed.  
  
Mulder looked up, torn between his lover and the man who was sitting on the couch, in front of the warm, glowing fire.  
  
"I don’t mind." His lover smiled. "It’s okay, Fox."  
  
"Yes," Mulder whispered. "I’d rather be with you."  
  
Laurence clapped his hands delightedly, his face suddenly becoming quite animated.  
  
"I knew it! How kind of you to say so, my dear. You look terrible – come to me and I’ll make it all better."  
  
"Go," his lover whispered, "into the warmth. You need the warmth, Fox."  
  
"If you're sure?" He buried his face in his lover's red shirt, and his lover patted him on the back, urging him to accept Laurence's offer.  
  
"I'm sure." His lover's smile was blindingly bright, his teeth shining white in his tanned face. "Go."  
  
Mulder found himself crawling across the floor towards those outstretched arms. This man was the only one talking to him as if he was human, despite all that the scrawny old bastard did, and all that he ordered. This man was the only one who offered any kind of comfort and he despised himself for taking it, but he couldn’t bear to go back to the torture right now. He needed respite. He was selling his soul to save his body, the way he had earlier sold his body to save his soul, but he had no choice. "Don’t worry. It’s all right," his lover said reassuringly. "Just do it. Don’t think about it." Mulder slumped by the fire, his shoulder resting against Laurence’s knee.  
  
"Come up here." Laurence helped him stand, and then thin hands grasped Mulder's arms, holding him up with more strength than Mulder would have guessed existed within that emaciated frame. Laurence guided him to sit on the couch, in front of the fire, in the warmth.  
  
"Did they hurt you so very much? My poor boy. What did they do to you?" Laurence's eyes were shining a deep, compassionate violet. He ran a bony finger over Mulder's shoulder and Mulder fought the need inside that wanted comfort instead of degradation and pain. He wanted to be loved, and taken care of, and Laurence was the only one offering that right now. It would be so easy to relax, to just sink into welcoming arms…any arms. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine they were his lover's arms…yes, and maybe his lover would come to him again, and talk to him, and he could forget he was here, trapped in this sick nightmare.  
  
"You want to come closer, don't you?" Laurence said softly. "You want to be held, don't you, my dear boy?" Cool, thin fingers caressed his hair. It really would be so easy.  
  
"Do it," his lover whispered. "It's okay, Fox."  
  
Mulder felt himself leaning back, further, and further, until his shoulders were resting against Laurence's thin chest. There was a moment of stillness before he heard the other man give a heartfelt sigh and then two bony arms were wrapped around his body. Mulder stiffened, and then, despising himself for it, relaxed into the embrace, and allowed Laurence to hold him tight, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to see what he had been brought to. "Was it terrible? You’re bruised here and there…" Fingers probed the purple marks on his ribs and thighs. "I don’t like to see you so demoralized. What happened to my bright, sparkling boy, hmm?"  
  
"I thought you wanted me docile. Obedient. Not bright," Mulder muttered, confused.  
  
"Oh but you’re so much fun when you’re sparring with me. Back and forth, a verbal game of wits. I like that so much more than the surly, truculent boy we saw here earlier. Wanting to die indeed, when there’s so much to live for!" Laurence sounded outraged. Mulder moved his head so that it rested on the other man’s shoulder. Laurence stroked his chest slowly, gently, with infinite care.  
  
"My poor boy," he repeated, kissing Mulder’s hair. "Kicked, whipped, degraded, and yet still so beautiful inside. So clever, and shining. I love that about you, Mulder. Now, tell me what you love about me," he requested.  
  
Mulder shifted, his eyes still closed, his mind whirring in protest at this bizarre request.  
  
"Come on, tell me," Laurence urged, squeezing his fingers lovingly over one of Mulder’s nipples. "I don’t want to have to send you back downstairs. You’re really in no condition to take much more. So just tell me what you love about me, and then we can feed you, and bathe you, and rest you."  
  
"I can’t think of anything," Mulder whispered.  
  
"Oh come now. Of course you can." Laurence’s arms, which had been so inviting and comforting, now seemed like a steel-jawed trap. "Tell me," Laurence whispered. "Tell me what you love about me."  
  
"You…" Mulder shuddered. There was nothing about this man that didn’t fill him with revulsion.  
  
"Hmmm?" Laurence asked. "Why can’t you speak, Mulder?"  
  
Mulder stared into space. His lover was very near, so near as to be almost touching him. He could smell the other man, could feel the brush of his red cotton shirt against his arm.  
  
"What is it? What do you see?" Laurence nuzzled at his ear.  
  
"Walter," Mulder whispered.  
  
"Here? Now? With us?" Laurence asked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Oh dear. How unfortunate. Of course you can’t talk of love to me when he’s here."  
  
Mulder felt himself being pushed away, and he fell to the floor. He was too tired now, and too close to the end of his endurance to even put out a hand to break his fall.  
  
"Take him back to his room," Laurence ordered. Mulder heard whimpering, and realized, in surprise, that the sound was coming from his own throat. "It’s all right. I’m coming with you, dear boy," Laurence said, kneeling beside him, and stroking him gently. "I’m going to send Walter away, so that you can concentrate on me. It’ll only hurt a little, and then he’ll be gone and you’ll be free. Hush, it’s okay…there, we’re going to carry you back."  
  
Mulder felt himself lifted into someone’s arms, and he lay there, not even caring when the blindfold was replaced over his eyes. He thought maybe it was Walter carrying him – he thought he could see a red shirt – and then he was being placed carefully on his table, face up.  
  
"Poor boy. So many welts and bruises. This really has to stop." His captor ran a gentle finger over his ribs. "Okay, my darling. I know you want to sleep, and eat, and be warm, and I’ll let you do that just as soon as I take care of this troublesome ghost from your past. Now, be very still, I’m just going to tie you…"  
  
Mulder felt his legs being pulled wide open, and he moaned in distress as he was fastened into the position he had been in when he had first woken up.  
  
"Hush. I know this is difficult for you. The delivery position is always the worst. There…now your arms." His arms were pulled half out of their sockets, and fastened to the bar above.  
  
"No…you can’t…I can’t…" Mulder wept, beyond being able to endure any more pain. "I want to go back to your room. I want…"  
  
"I know, and we can do that soon, but first we have this little problem to take care of, don’t we? Your troublesome lawyer has been insinuating himself between us since you arrived. You need to remember that it’s his fault you’re here at all."  
  
"His fault?" Mulder blinked behind the blindfold, trying to rationalize that.  
  
"Of course. He’s the reason you’re suffering so much now. If he hadn’t rejected you in the first place then you wouldn’t need me, but now that you do need me you know I won’t shirk away from my responsibilities. I’ll love you, because he didn’t love you enough. Now, hold still. This will be cold." A shrill scream escaped from Mulder’s lips as something hard and freezing was pushed into his anus.  
  
"No! Please! No!" He begged, half out of his mind with pain, and fear. The intruder was about the same size as a penis, but it was as cold and hard as pure steel.  
  
"Hush, I know it’s cold. I’ve been keeping it in the fridge, waiting for you. Now, just open up. I need to push a little further…there." Mulder cried out loud as that icy metal was inserted deep into his rectum. "I know you’d rather it was my warm cock, caressing you, and making love to you, but that will come later. This is necessary for now. Just feel the coldness for a moment, and remember that this is your lawyer’s fault. He’s to blame. He came between us, and now you’re suffering because of that. If you can just let him go, it would make it so much easier."  
  
"I don’t know how," Mulder protested. His body became used to the freezing invader, and his internal muscles started to relax.  
  
"It’s easy." Gentle fingers stroked his nipples. "Now, what I’m going to do is just cause you some discomfort here, on these lovely nubs of flesh," Laurence said gently. "I know it’s hard to take, but when I’m through you’ll be much happier, and we won’t have to worry about Walter any more."  
  
"Please…don’t…please…" Mulder braced himself, and a few seconds later he felt an atrocious pain blaze through his chest as his nipples were caught between cold, hard, squeezing metal clamps.  
  
"These have been chilled as well. There…I know they’re very painful, but we do need to purge you of your lawyer, and I did say it wouldn’t be easy. Hush…there…now…I want you to listen to me very carefully, Mulder."  
  
"I am…please let me go. I am listening…" he choked incoherently. The cold of the metal and the heat of his own agony combined to make him almost delirious with pain.  
  
"All right. This can be over any time you say. The clamps really aren’t at their maximum. They’re adjustable, so they can cause a lot more pain than they are at the moment. Let me show you."  
  
Mulder felt fingers on his breast, and then the pain in his right nipple exploded as the clamp was tightened. He opened his mouth and screamed for what seemed like hours.  
  
"It’s okay, my darling, I’m here." He felt Laurence kiss his forehead, soothing and comforting. "It’s not right that you should suffer like this when it’s his fault. He should be here, shouldn’t he, instead of you?" Laurence said, still stroking.  
  
"No…" Mulder gasped. A sharp pain jackknifed through his left nipple, and he writhed within his bonds, screaming out loud once more, over and over again.  
  
"Of course he should," Laurence murmured, when his screams eventually died away. "He’s a big, strong man. He could take this. Would you rather we let you go, and brought him here instead?" Laurence asked. "We could. We know where he lives. I’d enjoy overseeing the delivery of your Walter Skinner. He’s so big, and strong, isn’t he? All that power and authority…those men are the most fun. Watching someone self-assured come crashing down. I’d enjoy that. Can you see him; naked, degraded, penetrated, and beaten…can you see him like that, Mulder?"  
  
"No." Mulder squeezed his eyes tightly shut but the image stayed. He saw Walter lying on this slab, his red shirt being unbuttoned by Laurence’s cold, thin fingers. "NO!" He cried.  
  
"Someone else then? How about your dear Doctor Scully?"  
  
"No!" Mulder whispered, horrified. He couldn’t bear that. The idea of Scully, so much smaller, so petite, lying here…naked…being alternately fawned over and hurt by this man made him feel physically ill, and he began to retch.  
  
"My experience doesn’t begin and end with men, Mulder," Laurence said, turning Mulder's face to one side so that he could retch again. "I’ve broken women. Would you like to know the difference between men and women? I’ve made quite a study of it over the years. It’s interesting, because men fight from the very beginning. The first wall is always the hardest with men, and it always takes the most effort to bring that down. However, when that’s done…"  
  
Cool fingers trailed over his chest, and he stiffened, awaiting some further pain, but none was forthcoming.  
  
"When that’s done they’re relatively malleable. They invest so much of their energy in that initial struggle that once you’ve broken through that first wall they’re spent. They give up all the rest of their secrets without much trouble after that. Women are different. They give away bits and pieces of themselves easily, under the slightest duress. They have less pride invested in defending the outer walls of their defenses. Sometimes it seems almost ridiculously easy, and one can even be lulled into a false sense of security that you’ve won…That’s because women keep their secrets close to their hearts. They’ll give away everything but the very center, and then you just come up against a brick wall. That’s when the real work begins."  
  
Mulder screamed as the pressure on his nipples increased a fraction, cutting deep into the tortured nubs of flesh.  
  
"Now, where you’re interesting," Laurence continued, "is that you have elements of both. You don’t conform to the usual patterns. Many men start off fighting, and then are broken when they are defeated. You, on the other hand…you started off by giving things away…and then you stopped, and began fighting…your strategy veers, from the male, to the female, combined with something else, something uniquely Mulder. I’ve never tried to break anyone like you before, Mulder, and it’s exhilarating. Now, let me show you what this can do."  
  
Mulder felt hands on his anus, and then a strange sensation inside his rectum, pushing and stretching him from the inside out. "What I’m doing, is turning a screw on the speculum," Laurence told him conversationally. "It’s opening inside you, my boy. It opens very wide indeed, but I do hope we don’t have to extend it to its maximum capacity before you reach enlightenment."  
  
"Enlightenment?" Mulder blinked, the sweat pouring down his face. He felt the cold instrument inside his ass open a notch further, and gasped as his muscles protested against the movement.  
  
"Enlightenment," Laurence purred, running one cold finger down Mulder’s cheek, and caressing his lips. "You see, there’s no need for you to be suffering when you could just ask me to transfer my attentions to someone else instead. All you have to do is nominate someone to receive all this suffering instead of you. I’m giving you two choices – the beautiful Doctor Scully, your partner, your best friend, the woman who always looks out for you, and backs you up, or Walter Skinner, the man who rejected you. Which one will you choose, Mulder? I must say I really do like the idea of undressing Doctor Scully. She’s a beautiful woman. I’d like to slide inside her warm pussy, and enjoy her delicious tight ass. Would you like me to do this to her instead of you? It could be arranged. Just say the word, Mulder."  
  
"NO!" Mulder screamed, fighting his bonds, too far out of his mind with pain to think clearly.  
  
"Walter Skinner then? I can just see him, lying here. He’s a big man, so we’d have to work on him for quite some time before we saw any effect I think. I expect we’d go through several whips just getting him to the stage where he’d be receptive. I’d have to make sure I had extra dutymen standing by in case he tried to struggle. We could easily pin him down between us though. I do love watching big men succumb. It’s so satisfying. I’d love to see what I could do with your Walter. Now, just say the word, Mulder, and your pain will stop. It’s you or him. We can stop hurting you, and I can send out some of Charles’s men to fetch him instead. You could watch me work on him if you liked. Would you like that? We could break him together. I’d enjoy that. Then you could have him back…and he’d be exactly what you wanted. He’d be anything you wanted in fact. Once he’s broken, you’d never need to worry about him running out on you again. Do you like that idea? Walter, here on this table… I could make that happen. All you have to do is ask. It’s him or you, Mulder. What’s your decision?"  
  
"No." Mulder looked around blindly, searching for a glimpse of his lover’s red shirt, needing guidance, or permission, or just to look into his lover’s dark eyes and draw strength from him, but a new wave of pain tore through his nipples, preventing him from being able to see clearly. "No," he repeated, trying not to think about Walter lying here, screaming under the lash, being repeatedly raped.  
  
"What a pity." The metal device in his ass suddenly opened further, making him cry out loud.  
  
"I can't take any more…" he protested, imagining his ass splitting open, and rupturing.  
  
"Nonsense, you can certainly take more. You’ll have to take more if you won’t allow anyone else to take your place," Laurence purred in his ear. He felt fingers on his nipples, and then another sharp pain as the clamps squeezed his flesh even more viciously between their cold, biting talons.  
  
"It can stop so easily. It’s all in your hands," Laurence murmured, as he trailed a finger along Mulder’s chest, and down over his thighs, and then turned the ratchet another notch on the device lodged up Mulder’s ass.  
  
"Please no!" Mulder cried. It hurt so much he was out of his mind with pain. It was so cold, and big, it felt as if it was devouring him from the inside out.  
  
"Do you want it stop?" Laurence demanded.  
  
"Yes! Please!" Mulder begged.  
  
"Then you know what to say," Laurence replied, in an icy tone.  
  
Mulder gazed into the darkness of his own soul, and hung there. He couldn’t take any more. He needed respite. It was all just words. Words didn’t matter. Words couldn’t hurt anyone.  
  
"He ran out on you. He’s a coward. He didn’t even have the guts to tell you he was married," Laurence said softly into his ear. "Why shouldn’t he suffer for what he did? Why should you be the one suffering?"  
  
Mulder felt a surge of the most excruciating pain in his ass, and chest, and then a white light flashed before his eyes, blinding him, and leaving him screaming out loud. He didn’t know what he was saying, just that he was repeating it over and over again.  
  
"What was that, dear boy? I can’t understand what you’re saying." He felt Laurence’s breath on his face. "Say it again so I can hear. Speak slowly, and clearly…go on. I’m listening."  
  
Another wave of pain in his chest left him almost speechless.  
  
"There, there. Is that hurting? Poor boy. These poor nipples are so red, and sore." Fingers trailed over his chest, and then, savagely, twisted the clamps on his nipples, causing him to cry out over and over again, lost in the sound of his own screams. "Poor darling boy. It's so painful, isn't it? Hold still, let me turn the screw again. We're nearly at maximum now, my darling. Any more and these poor nipples will start to bleed. You must be in such pain."  
  
"Please…no more…" he managed to gasp, but the relentless fingers on his chest turned the screw on one of the clamps another notch and he almost passed out from the pain. The convulsions of his body within his bonds pushed the cold, hard metal up his ass even deeper into his rectum, stretching his internal muscles beyond endurance.  
  
"Now the other clamp, and then we can return to your ass. I think the speculum can be opened considerably more. It's a strange sensation, isn't it?" Laurence asked, conversationally. "Such a build up of pressure. Now, my darling, one more clamp to adjust…" The already excruciating pain in his chest increased exponentially and Mulder screamed into a pit of black despair. He couldn't take any more of this. He couldn't…he couldn't… He opened his mouth, and moistened his lips, scared now not of what he was going to say, but that he might not have a voice left to say it with. When he started to speak he didn't even recognize the sound.  
  
"Do it to Walter," he croaked. "Do it to him. Hurt him instead. Do it to Walter."  
  
There was silence, and then he was being enveloped in loving arms. "Good boy. I'm so proud of you. There, see, it wasn’t so hard. Hush, while the dutymen untie you. Hush…everything is going to be fine now. You’ll see. There’s going to be so much love now. Just for you, all for my brave boy. Hold on, my darling, hold on."  
  
There was all kinds of pain as the devices in and on his body were removed, but then it was gone, and he was being wrapped in a blanket, and someone was carrying him up a flight of stairs. He was laid on the couch by the fire in the salon, and his blindfold was removed.  
  
"Good boy," Laurence said, opening the door to the adjacent room.  
  
"Don't leave me!" The words left his lips before he could stop them. Laurence paused in mid-step, and smiled, a tender smile.  
  
"It's all right. I won't be long. I’m just going to fill the bath with nice, warm water, and then we can make you more comfortable." He disappeared into the room next door, and Mulder slumped back on the couch, unable to move a muscle.  
  
"I’m sorry," he whispered to nobody. He gazed around blindly, searching for his lover’s red shirt. "I’m sorry," he said again, longing for absolution. "I didn’t mean it." But that was a lie. He knew that when he had said it he had meant it. He waited for his lover to come. He had always come before, with little words of encouragement, helping Mulder to bear the pain. Mulder desperately searched the darkness of his own subconscious for a glimpse of that red shirt, or a sign of that killer smile, but found nothing. "I’m sorry," he said again, abjectly, but it didn’t change anything.  
  
His lover was gone. 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 I'm humming to myself as I fill the Jacuzzi. He's taken such an important step, the darling boy! I did wonder whether or not this might break him of and by itself, but it didn't. I know when they're broken, and he's just damaged, not snapped. He's proving to be very hard to break, as he predicted, and as I had hoped. Physical pain actually hurts him less than when I can inflict emotional blows on his psyche though - he visibly wilts after those. His earlier anger showed me I was getting close to something important to him, whether he realized that or not.  
  
I fold up my sleeve to test the Jacuzzi for warmth, and then return to the salon. I pause in the doorway, rendered utterly speechless by the sight that awaits me there. Oh my! He's never looked more beautiful. He's lying on the couch; the blanket that was loosely wrapped around his body has fallen partially away, leaving most of his body exposed. His head is slumped back, on the armrest, leaving the long line of his throat visible, enticing me to cover it in kisses. I make no move though. I don't want to disturb this delicious tableau. His skin is very pale, and he is covered with little marks; bruises around his ribs, courtesy of my dutymen, and long, red, livid welts all over his body. One butt cheek is just visible, and it burns and glows in the firelight, rosy with pain, in vivid contrast to the pallor of the rest of his body. His hair is dark where it has soaked up sweat, and is a mess of points and stray strands that sweep endearingly across his marble brow. He's much thinner than when we brought him in, which serves to accentuate his ribs and long torso in a way that I find almost aesthetically pleasing. After torture he resembles the young boy he still is inside. He is vulnerable, hurting, and alone…and he is looking to me to fill the void in his life now that he has betrayed his lover. His cock lies languidly, abandoned and neglected on his thigh, and I so look forward to using that particular organ to show him that I can provide pleasure as well as pain. One of his arms is draped awkwardly across his body, and the other hangs, almost lifelessly by his side. The one nipple visible is dark red, swollen from its recent abuse. He reminds me of the painting, Death of Marat - that delicious, alabaster-skinned Marat lying in his bath, perfect in his absence of life. Mulder is absent of life at this moment. I've sucked him dry and now I have the joy of revitalizing him. I tiptoe closer. His long lashes are sooty against his pale skin, and his face is rendered all the more lovely by the pain he has so recently experienced. There are tear-stains on his cheeks, and his lashes are still wet, making them stand out even more startlingly against his flesh. His lips are cut in several places - more from his own bite marks than anything we have done to him, I think, and the jagged, red rips are a flash of bright color on this porcelain statue of perfection.  
  
Ah, but bringing him to this was so lovely. He has been worthy of my skills, an excellent opponent. I wonder if he has any more tricks up his sleeve, or whether he will soon succumb? In a way, I almost hope that he will continue to struggle and surprise me - I think I could play with him until the end of my days and never grow tired.  
  
He moves his head, ruining the picture, and those tragic hazel eyes look at me. He's half out of his mind, and isn't really sure where he is. There is confusion in his expression, and a wild panic.  
  
"Hush, it's all right, my darling boy. We're going to wash you. We'll use warm water to comfort you. Hush."  
  
He cries out as I beckon the dutyman to lift him, and carry him into the next room."Hush, there's no pain now. You've been very good and now you'll be rewarded. I'm going to reward you so well, my darling boy. Hush, hush, hush." I murmur the words to him over and over again, soothing him, as a mother soothes her child to sleep. He's been through so much, and so bravely. What a dear creature he is, to take his pain so well, to suffer so nobly, and with such beauty. I don't think I've known any other recruit suffer to such perfection, not even Charles's spitfire assistant. Oh, but I love him so much! At this moment in time I love him more than words can ever express.  
  
I watch as the dutyman lowers his precious bundle gently into the bath, admonishing him not to allow Mulder's head to knock against the side, and then get undressed, and slip in beside my darling boy. Mulder's eyes have closed again, and his head lolls back. He cried out as we helped him into the water, and I'm sure it stung in places, but now that he's warm the sting is forgotten. I take him into my arms, and he comes, unresisting. I hold him for a long time, taking care to keep his chin out of the water. The lights in the bedroom have been dimmed, and he is lost in a dream. It's just him and me, alone together in this shared, exquisite moment. I allow him to rest, spaced out as a result of the recent pain, weary beyond belief. After half an hour or more of luxuriating in being together, I move him to one side, and go to pick up the soap. He stirs, his hazel eyes full of fear.  
  
"Please! Don't hurt me," he begs, his eyes dark with remembered pain. It's breathtaking. The beauty of that look, and the suffering in those eyes - I can feel a lump rising in my throat.  
  
"It's all right, my dear one. It's all right. I'm not going to hurt you."  
  
It's like winning the trust of a wild animal, trapped and in pain. It's so good to be able to soothe, and mend, and take care of him. When I release him back into the wild again he'll be tamed inside, my beautiful, obedient little fox. Just thinking about that moment makes me want to weep. I pull him close again, and gently and carefully soap him all over. He flinches a little as I work - I have to keep my actions very measured and smooth so as not to scare him. Any sudden movement and he's skittish, like a colt, full of fear. I take my time, and he just lies there, and lets me wash away the sweat, and tears. When he's been soaped, I lovingly take the sponge, fill it with water, and gently squeeze it over his body. I think he likes this. The action of the water running over his body in this way is immensely pleasurable. The pain has heightened his senses you see, and he's receptive to the slightest stimulus right now. He moans in my arms as the water anoints him, washing him clean of all that he's suffered. Finally, I squeeze the sponge over his head, and he shivers, closing his eyes. The water coats those dark eyelashes, and, in the lamplight, in the water, he is like a shining god of despair. I pour shampoo into my palms and lather it into his scalp. I love massaging scalps and I know he loves what I'm doing because he puts his head back and lets me work the lather deep into his skin. It's a special blend of aromatherapy oils designed to soothe, and he blisses out to the feel of my fingers on his head. Darling boy! When I finally remove my hands from his scalp, he gives a moan at the separation, which warms my heart. I pick up the sponge, and squeeze it over his head, and soon he is clean.  
  
"Time to sleep, dear heart," I murmur.  
  
"Sleep," he whispers, in a voice full of longing.  
  
"My darling, I can't bear for us to be parted, so I'm afraid I must tie you," I whisper.  
  
He moves his head, his eyes dark with those tragic, unshed tears again.  
  
"No...please..." he whimpers.  
  
"It's all right. We'll tie you as comfortably as we can - it's a small price to pay for lying in my arms, after all." I smile, soothing him, running my hand up and down his arm. I get him out of the bath with the help of the dutyman, and slide him into the large, inviting bed.  
  
"Here...painkillers." I swirl the soluble tablets around in a glass of water - he's in no condition to swallow them whole - and then press it to his lips. He makes a face at the bitter flavor so when he's swallowed them down, I give him a glass of plain water to wash the taste from his mouth. He wants to curl into a ball; he goes straight into the fetal position as soon as I release my grip on him, but I need to dress his wounds and can't do that when he's all scrunched up, so I painstakingly stretch out his limbs.  
  
"Don't move them, darling boy. Just stay very still while I take care of you." I rub an entire tube of cool, antiseptic gel into his sore body, treating his welts thoroughly. I take this opportunity to examine that bruising on his ribs. I'll be very angry with my dutymen if they've broken skin or bone, or caused any internal damage, but they have been as circumspect as I demand of them. My recruits are not the only ones I punish with the whip, and my dutymen are highly trained. Then it's time to examine him internally. He gives a little cry as I part his buttocks, but I stroke his skin softly, murmuring to him lovingly, and he tries his best to relax. The speculum hasn't damaged him - I'm very careful in my use of that particular instrument - but he's been penetrated recently, and that, predictably, has caused some slight tearing. I soothe cool cream into his rectum. He isn't badly torn, and he'll soon heal with good food, comfort, and rest. Finally, I insert a suppository. Antibiotics will prevent any infection from getting hold. His immune system is very weak right now and needs a little helping hand. He cries out as I push the suppository home, and I hold him close, rocking him back and forth. The poor boy clings to me for comfort, which I'm more than happy to give him. The suppository was for his own good though; he'll be much more comfortable now.  
  
I wrap special, fur-lined cuffs around his wrists, and then tie them loosely to the headboard, giving him plenty of room to move around. His ankles are also cuffed, and chained, and again, attached to the bed. The worst he can do to me now is take a bite out of me. As he isn't broken it's a risk to sleep next to him but I can't resist. I need to be close to him in the aftermath of what we've just been through together. I'll leave my dutyman watching at the door, but even so, Mulder could do some damage if he woke up and felt desperate enough to attack. Like a wild animal, he might just wake up so confused and full of turmoil that he bites the hand that feeds him. Finally, regretfully, after weighing it up, I decide a gag will be necessary to render him completely safe. I fetch a gag of the softest cotton. It's little more than a wad of cloth on elastic, and it won't exacerbate the sores on his mouth. I slip it easily between his teeth and he moans and moves his head, those expressive hazel eyes registering his anxiety, but doesn't put up any real fight.  
  
"There, my darling boy. When you're fully broken we can experience the joy of sharing a bed without the need for these restraints to come between us, but you're not quite there yet."  
  
He makes no reply, merely closes his eyes and lets his head fall onto the pillow. I slip under the sheets beside him, and pull his naked body against my own. I'm very aroused by having him so close, and so docile, and he moans when he feels my hard cock digging into his buttocks, but I must delay my pleasure for now as it isn't the right time to further consummate our growing love. I pet him instead, soothing him with little light caresses on his body. His hair is so clean and smells so divine that I bury my nose in it and inhale the scent of him. It's intoxicating - he's intoxicating. Finally, I rest my face against the delightful curve of his neck, and kiss him there, over and over again. His body is limp and acquiescent in my arms, so heavy, and so perfect.  
  
"You're loved, my dear boy. So loved. I wonder how you could have ever stood your lonely existence before. Here you are loved. I love you," I whisper, and he is still, listening intently to my words. "I'm going to take very good care of you," I continue, stroking his flaccid cock, which doesn't respond in the slightest. Never mind. I'll take care of that in due course. "My love, my darling one, so cherished. Don't disobey me again, my sweet. When you're good, we can share so much pleasure. Ah, so silent, so beautiful."  
  
I think I caress him for a full hour, my hard cock weeping with need the whole time. It's the most delicious agony I think I've ever experienced. The sacrifices I make for this dear creature. Of course he doesn't know that I'm not going to insert my hungry cock into his warm, captive body - I think he's waiting for that to happen, but I want him to see that I don't have to enter him in order to possess him. I can show my utter mastery of him just by tying him to my bed and lying beside him. Finally, I allow him to sleep, but I keep him in my arms. I won't relinquish my hold on this precious prize, not now, not ever.  
  
I take only my usual 5 or 6 hours of sleep. I really don't require any more in order to feel refreshed. When I wake up he is still fast asleep. I let him rest - the poor lamb really needs to recoup his energy. I lie still, and just drink in the sight of him as he sleeps. There's a little more color in his skin, and he's breathing deeply through the cotton gag, assuring me that despite his little physical exertions of late, he's in basically good health. He'll take a few days to recover, but he's young, and resilient.  
  
I slide out of the bed, and he moans, and moves into the space I occupied, his chains clinking slightly as he rolls. The change wakes him up, and he glances around, bleary-eyed and confused.  
  
"It's all right, dear heart. I won't be leaving you for long," I whisper, smoothing back his hair. Thus reassured, he closes his eyes and is soon asleep again. I see to my toilet, dress, and then return to the bed with some paperwork, which I deposit on the nightstand. I like sleeping under sheets, but now that I've taken my own rest, I think the boy should be displayed for me to enjoy as I work, so I strip back the blankets to reveal his naked beauty. He stirs again, his eyes opening in panic, perhaps imagining that he will come to harm.  
  
"It's all right," I murmur again, adjusting the temperature on the wall panel so that he will be warm. "I just want you on display, that's all. It's a crime to cover up all this sublime flesh, my love." He shivers, but he's too tired to care very much, and his head drops again, like a brick, onto the pillow. He's no danger to me now that I'm awake, so I remove his gag, and untie his hands and legs, allowing him freedom of movement, and he stretches out, relishing his liberty. He sleeps for four more hours, while I sit beside him, glasses perched on the tip of my nose as I work. I only need glasses for reading - a sign of impending old age, I'm afraid. I used to have 20/20 vision in my youth, but the relentless march of time has robbed me of that. Every now and again I glance up, and allow my gaze to linger on his naked loveliness. He's a delicious pink color now, warm and thoroughly comfortable, nestled up in my bed. His outstretched hand is just touching my thigh and I love the contact. Occasionally it all becomes too much for me, and I have to caress the naked creature; a little kiss to the hollow between his collarbones, a lick along the nearest earlobe, a tiny, gentle brush of fingertips over a nipple. He stirs and mutters when I touch him, but doesn't wake.  
  
The body often shuts down after extreme trauma, requiring far more sleep than usual, but all the same, he must dance to my tune, so I decide to introduce some kind of rhythm to his day. I'll see that he gets plenty of sleep, but he will take it as and when I allow it. The chef makes a particularly tempting breakfast for us, and I take it from the dutyman, and sit on the bed next to Mulder with a tray.  
  
"Mulder, wake up." I pull him sideways so that his face is in my lap. He gazes up at me, blinking. His eyes are full of sadness - it's going to be my pleasure to make them light up with joy in due course. "I have a delicious breakfast for you," I tell him, stroking his hair.  
  
"I'm not hungry," he whispers.  
  
"I didn't say you had a choice, dear one," I murmur lovingly. "You don't."  
  
"I can't," he mutters, his eyes sliding away from mine and into some dark, soulful tragedy all of his own.  
  
"Well, you can eat or you can be whipped."  
  
It's a very simple matter, and it takes him less than ten seconds to open his mouth obligingly. I cut up a slice of bacon, and place it on his tongue, and he chews, thoughtfully, looking up at me the whole time. He swallows, with some effort, raising his head slightly to make the action more comfortable, and when he's done I press some omelet to his mouth. He takes what I give him, chewing interminably slowly, but I have all the time in the world, and I'm a very patient man. When he's eaten a fair sized meal I allow him to sit, and place a glass of orange juice to his lips. He drinks that down without complaint, gulping on it, so it's clear that he was very thirsty. I fill a second glass with water and he empties that as well. Putting aside the food, I bring a pot over to the bed, and, sitting him on the edge, I take his penis in my hand. He looks at me with dull, blank eyes, knowing what he has to do, but even so it takes several long seconds before the first droplets splatter into the pot. He's inhibited, but that will pass with time. After a while the flow becomes steadier and he relieves himself of a considerable sum of fluid, so that, also, was a pressing need.  
  
"You must tell me when you need something, whether it's the bathroom or water," I chide gently.  
  
"I need to go home," he whispers, a faint ghost of my lovely, fighting Mulder in his tone.  
  
"You are home, my dear boy. Home is a place where you're loved, and taken care of. Home is where the heart is - it's a cliché, but true all the same. Your heart belongs here, Mulder, with me. I'll take good care of your heart. I won't let you down as so many others have done before. The man you thought was your father, your lover, your real father - none of them gave you the love you deserve but I will."  
  
His gaze fixes on me, a puzzled expression in those limpid, hazel eyes.  
  
"Why?" He asks, his lips forming the word although it barely has any sound to it. My heart almost breaks.  
  
"Oh my poor boy." I sit beside him on the bed, and take him in my arms. He comes, unresisting. "My poor, darling boy. I'll love you because someone must! You've been neglected for far too long. All you needed was someone to take notice of you, and give you the attention you crave. The other men in your life have all failed you, but I won't."  
  
He gives the faintest sigh, and then is still, and deflated, as if he has lost the capacity to breathe, and when he does take another breath it is noisy and full of fight.  
  
"Lie back," I instruct, pushing him onto the bed. "Let me show you just how loved you are."  
  
I go to the Jacuzzi, dip a washcloth in the water, then return, and gently stroke the cloth over his penis and testicles, parting his legs insistently as I work. He lies there, looking up at the ceiling, his face blank. When he's clean, I put aside the washcloth, and fasten his arms and legs to the bed once again, so that he's spread-eagled and immobile. Once he's secured, I play with his captive body again, enjoying myself, but being very gentle. I stroke my fingers down his chest, and rub each nipple with tiny brush strokes until they harden. They're still very sore, but they can take gentle caresses. I dip my head to suck on each one, and then lick my way down to his groin. He gasps when I take his penis in my mouth. I don't think he expected me to pleasure him like this. He remains flaccid though, despite my best attempts to suck some life into him, and I am rather good at this, if I do say so myself. Usually this kind of stimulus is enough to have most men hard despite themselves, but he's already admitted to a certain degree of impotence, so I wasn't necessarily expecting this to be easy. I relinquish his cock, and move up the bed to gaze down into his eyes.  
  
"Darling, you must come for me," I tell him gently, stroking his hair back away from his forehead.  
  
"Tell my cock that," he replies, his eyes meeting mine for the first time. There's just the slightest trace of his usual wry humor in those listless orbs. "I can't help it if it doesn't perform on cue."  
  
"But of course you can, darling!" I laugh, still gazing down at him fondly. "Look, my sweet, you've been through a great deal these past few days, and it's understandable that you're feeling a little low. That bastard Skinner took a great deal out of you, didn't he?"  
  
His brow furrows, and his lips twist, as if in pain.  
  
"Hush, my love." I stroke his breast gently. "Now, you can get over him. You have me now, and I want to give you pleasure. Your body deserves a little respite after the pain, doesn't it?"  
  
"I can't force a hard on." He shrugs.  
  
"Darling." My tone is firmer this time, and I place a finger over his mouth. "'Can't' isn't a word I want to hear from these divine lips. You can, if you try. If you really want to please me you will. Now, I don't want to hurt you any more, dear boy. You need some recovery time. You need to be cosseted and loved. I want to do that for you but you have to let me."  
  
"How?" He asks, almost wordlessly. I slide my hand down to his cock and grasp it firmly.  
  
"Well, my dear, the dutyman was so kind as to fetch your whip while you were sleeping. I have it here." I nod in the direction of the nightstand next to his side of the bed, where his whip lies, furled. Anxiety creeps into those dull eyes.  
  
"No…you promised no pain here," he says, tugging on his chains. "You promised!" He's like a child who has been told he won't be getting a much longed for treat.  
  
"Hush, dear one." I soothe his hair again until he's calm. "I don't want to beat you, darling. You've been beaten a great deal and while that's been good for you, and necessary, I'd prefer to be making love to you instead of hurting you right now. You need some love, dear boy. All you have to do is accept it."  
  
"Please…if I can, I will...just don't beat me," he implores. He's right to be anxious. He's in bad shape physically, and I couldn't do more than administer the very mildest of beatings - although I will do that if it's necessary.  
  
"Darling, you're going to have to trust me. I need you to allow your body to respond. It's the mind that interferes you see, dear heart." I tap his forehead. "Any cock would respond to what I was just doing to it under normal circumstances. It's your mind that stopped that response. You have to allow it to happen."  
  
He swallows, and nods, and I reward him with a kiss.  
  
"Good boy. It's merely a choice between allowing yourself pleasure, or the inevitability of pain if you interfere or resist. Think of it that way." His eyes register the starkness of that choice, and I smile, and pat his face reassuringly.  
  
"There, there, dear one. Let's try and keep the whip on the nightstand, shall we? It would be so much nicer for both of us that way."  
  
I snake my way back down his body, and end up at his cock once again. This time I take it in my hand and stroke it for quite some time. This won't be quick, but I'm confident we'll get some kind of result; he's desperate to avoid the lash. I watch him while I work. He puts his head back, trying not to fight it, and his eyes fix firmly on a spot on the ceiling. His cock slowly begins to harden. It isn't easy. Every time he looks close to getting what could charitably be described as an erection, he loses it almost immediately.  
  
"Hold it, dear one. If you don't come then you'll be whipped, so just getting hard isn't enough. You must hold it long enough to come," I urge him.  
  
He swallows, nodding, and grips his chains tightly in both his hands, concentrating very hard. His cock starts to swell again beneath my caress, and this time it looks more promising, so I lower my head and take it into my mouth. He gives a little cry as I skillfully administer a most pleasurable blowjob. He's holding very well, but I know he could lose it at any moment. By raising my eyes I can see how much of a strain it is for him to concentrate on this. His erection suddenly fades, and I sigh in exasperation, sitting up again.  
  
"Darling, we'll give it one last try, but you need to relax," I croon, stroking the side of his face tenderly. "You're all tensed up, and that isn't getting us anywhere. Just think of any fantasy you want. Maybe you're the center of attention at a party, and there is a line of big, strong bikers all dressed in leather, kneeling in front of you and worshipping your cock. Does that work, hmm? Or pretty ladies, with tanned limbs, and large ripe breasts, their hair sweeping over your abdomen as they suck your penis. Now, let's try again. If this doesn't work then I'm afraid I really will have no choice but to whip you."  
  
His eyes are full of a kind of grim determination and he nods. I return to his cock, and begin stroking it again. If it weren't such a pretty cock then this would be becoming something of a chore, but his whole body is a delight really, and it's so nice watching his unguarded responses. He makes a conscious effort to relax each muscle in his body, and sinks into the bed. His lips are parted, and he's gazing into the distance, humming to himself. His cock begins to harden again, and I take advantage of that fact by deep-throating it in a move that makes him gasp. Smiling to myself I suck down hard and his ass lifts away from the bed, his cock thrusting urgently towards the back of my throat. I allow him to continue with his thrusts and he gets into a rhythm, until finally I can sense that he's about to come. Hallelujah! I draw back, and complete the job with my hand - I do so hate the taste of semen.  
  
"Good boy!" I praise him whole-heartedly when he delivers a small amount of sperm, and he gives a smile of pure relief at having evaded a whipping. "You see. You can take pleasure. You just need to think less and respond more," I tell him, cleaning us both up with the washcloth. He nods, doubtfully. "There now, what were you thinking when you came?" I asked him. "What little fantasy were you playing out?"  
  
He looks me directly in the eye and shrugs. "I imagined you were Walter," he whispers.  
  
Damn! I told him he could use any fantasy he wanted so I can't punish him, but all the same, I'm furious. Oh, I knew that all I'd done was remove Walter from his delirium, and, by means of his betrayal, loosen his grip on the fantasy he's built up around his young lawyer, but I hadn't anticipated this. Damn Walter Skinner. He's there at every turn I take, and there is even the faintest hint of a triumphant smirk in Mulder's eyes. It's as if he knows that he's hurt me - as if he takes pleasure in it. I force a smile, and get to my feet.  
  
"Well, that isn't what I wanted to hear, as you undoubtedly know. I won't beat you for it, but as a punishment you can lie here on your own for a while, and think about matters. I have work to do in any case."  
  
I collect my papers from the nightstand, and take them into my salon. I can see the anxiety in his eyes as I go. He's worried about so many things, not least being left alone with the enormity of his betrayal. The ramifications of that have yet to sink in. It's possible that he even believes I have it in my power to bring Skinner here to take his place. His grip on reality is fragile enough right now to make that a possibility. Well, he can stew on that for a while because I need a rest from him. Breaking new recruits is a great joy but it can be so tiring as well. Damn this old body. I used to have more stamina. I knew he'd be a challenge but all the same…just when I have a breakthrough, he comes back with something unexpected. It makes him fascinating, but hard work as well.  
  
Walter Skinner. He really is proving to be more of a thorn in my side than I had anticipated. I'm drawn to Mulder's file, and glance through it, seeking information on the troublesome Mr. Skinner. After some searching, I find a few lines: Ex-marine, Vietnam, Assistant Director in charge of Criminal Investigations...it's all so tedious. This is why I hate files. They give you the facts without giving you the information. Finally I come across something that does interest me - it's a photograph. On the back is scribbled: Mulder. With Skinner. October 1997. I turn it over, eager to catch a glimpse of my rival. Mulder is the main focus of interest for the photographer, and Skinner is clearly secondary as half his face is cut off, but it's enough to give me a flavor of the man. I put my head on one side and look at him thoughtfully. So this is Walter Skinner, my rival for Mulder's affections. He interesting looking - not conventionally handsome but then neither is Mulder. Broad across the chest and shoulder, and an inch or so taller than my own dear boy next door, Walter Skinner exudes a certain kind of confidence and authority that I dislike intensely. Charles has it too.  
  
Men like these always get their own way, whether in the best choice of mates, or money, power and status. It's galling. What does he have that I do not? What subtleties of personality lie within Walter Skinner's broad breast that Mulder goes back to him over and over again in our discourses? Three or four months, eighteen years ago, and yet the boy hangs on to them so assiduously. Of course working with Skinner must keep the memories fresh, and there is nothing like the pang of unrequited love to keep the emotions constantly razor sharp, like a knife directly to the heart. I need to know more. I need to understand this Walter Skinner. Ah, how I wish Charles could bring him here. I'd love to have my chance with a man such as this. I trace my finger over his outline, pondering the matter. Men like Skinner are a mystery to me. I understand Mulder all too well, just as I understand the demons that drive Alex. These boys are such lost souls, so strong and yet so in need of comfort. Childhood abandonment, loss, the absence of strong father figures and subsequent fixation upon them…all these are issues that I understand, as surely as the boys I break, but Mulder has something else, something I haven't encountered before that gives him that extra dimension. Mulder is right; the fact that he works for the government, and that he is Charles's son, are both powerful motivations for my enjoyment in breaking him. That and his bright, shining intellect of course. I've never met my equal in that regard before. No wonder he is becoming an obsession with me. A healthy obsession of course! I am a man in love, and it's galling to find that I have such a deeply rooted and pernicious rival.  
  
After thinking the matter through for some hours, I can't help myself. I reach for the phone and call Charles.  
  
"I need another file. I'm sure you can oblige," I request. There's silence on the other end of the line, and I take this as an invitation to proceed. "Walter Skinner. I need to know more about him. Could you send me the file you have on him?"  
  
"Very well." I can almost see him blow out a haze of cigarette smoke as he says the words. "How is it going with Mulder?"  
  
"Good. We've had an important breakthrough. That is why I want Skinner's file."  
  
"Then he's broken?" His voice is very hard, almost rasping. I smile. Poor Charles. I sometimes wonder whether he truly wants Mulder to be broken or not. He longs for his boy to be the only one to resist, to show the strength of his own genes, and yet he also longs for an obedient son to do his bidding. What a dilemma!  
  
"No, he isn't broken," I reply.  
  
"Damn it, Laurence! You've had him for weeks."  
  
"And it takes time. It can't be hurried. Remember your assistant? Some take longer to break than others."  
  
"The FBI is looking for him. I've had Skinner tracking me down, breathing down my neck. It isn't easy keeping him at bay."  
  
"I'm sure." I finger the photograph of Walter Skinner. He looks bullish, and everything Mulder has told me leads me to believe that he's a determined man. "Maybe...I could distract them a little," I murmur.  
  
"How?" I can hear the interest in his voice.  
  
"Ways and means." I have the stirrings of an idea, but I must examine it from every angle before I commit myself. The beauty of it is that if I can find a way of making it work then it will also have considerable impact on Mulder.  
  
"The others are growing impatient. They want to see him," Charles says, in a cold tone. "Correction - they want to screw him."  
  
Damn, but I wish they wouldn't keep interfering. "I can't bring him yet. He isn't ready."  
  
"Then make him ready. You have two weeks," Charles snaps, before slamming down the phone.  
  
The trouble with the Elite is that they have no concept of what an art form it is to break someone. It isn't something you can hurry. It has to be finessed. You can certainly just bludgeon someone into submission but that isn't breaking, it's merely training. I could train Mulder from here. He's reached a place where he'll do what he's told as long as I am around to insist. However the point about breaking is that the recruit learns to follow the orders of any member of the Elite, not just myself. I can't be around to supervise them all individually every hour of every day.  
  
I consider my options. Two weeks. It's possible I might break him in that time but I can't count on it - and if I have to get him into shape for a public appearance then that limits my ability to be truly creative. I could make him obedient, and even halfway skilled by then, but broken - no, although the little trick I have up my sleeve might push him further in that direction without marking his body any more, or rendering him less attractive for his debut in the Syndicate Smoking Room. The Elite do not like seeing whipped, demoralized, and bruised recruits who flinch away from every touch. They love the end results of what I do, but they don't want to examine too closely how those results are achieved. They merely want willing flesh, and bright eyes, not downcast, withdrawn creatures, such as Mulder is now. Two weeks. I could restore at least some of his verve in that time, and tutor him in how to give pleasure…but it will mean me accompanying him when he goes to the Syndicate or he won't perform. Damn. Just the thought of sitting in the car makes my flesh crawl. If he hadn't been so stubborn, if I'd been able to break him sooner...no, I mustn't blame the boy for that. I wanted a challenge and I'd have been disappointed if he had caved in too early. Very well. If that's the way it must be.  
  
Mulder is dozing when I return to the bedroom, but he looks up as I close the door softly behind me, and glance at him speculatively. There's fear in his eyes, and they flicker to the whip. Although I said I wouldn't beat him, he's still afraid that I will, and that's a good thing. It shows he's malleable enough to be trained. I often do begin some rudimentary training during the breaking process, so it isn't too inconvenient to have my plans altered in this way, although I'll admit to being a little irked that my hand has been forced. I'm a very precise man, and breaking is an extremely precise art. I sit on the side of the bed and look down on my sweetly disheveled captive.  
  
"How are you feeling, darling?" I ask him tenderly.  
  
"I hurt, Larry," he says honestly, those hazel eyes shining but still downcast. "Inside. I hurt inside."  
  
"I'm sure you do. Hold still, let me examine you." I untie his legs, pull on a latex glove, coat my finger in lubricant, and open his legs. He makes no protest, and a cursory examination reveals that he's doing fine but I'm not surprised he's sore. "I want you to heal quickly, my sweet, because I have plans for you, so I'm going to help you along. Hush…don't worry. My plans are entirely pleasurable. We're about to embark on a great adventure, you and I. You're going to learn so much in the next two weeks. Now open for me again." I insert a suppository, and he bites down on his lip. Even the slightest thing distresses him right now, and it's very beautiful watching him struggling with the pain. These government men, with all their training, don't like admitting that they're just flesh and blood like anyone else. I remove my finger, strip off the glove, and then take away his chains completely. He curls up immediately upon his release, hugging his knees to his chest, his eyes faraway and full of sadness.  
  
"My poor boy." I slide down beside him, and take him into my arms. "It will stop hurting soon, darling. Come here." And he does! Oh, joy. He comes! He turns in my arms, and buries his face in my neck, and I can feel the wetness of his tears soaking through my shirt.  
  
"I'm sorry, Larry," he whispers. "Guess I'm not so much fun as the others you've broken, huh?"  
  
"Oh darling. You couldn't be more wrong. You're just in pain. You need comfort. It's good to accept it isn't it?"  
  
He shudders in my arms, and I know that he's hating himself for needing to feel my hands gently petting his back, and soothing him.  
  
"Yes, Larry," he answers finally, in a low whisper.  
  
"There...you'll feel better soon. It isn't as bad as you fear. The pain will soon go away," I murmur, kissing that abundant dark hair.  
  
"When I said I hurt inside, Larry, I didn't mean that," he whispers listlessly. I draw back and gaze into those dark, tragic eyes. "I meant I hurt inside." His hand brushes his heart, and he looks at me in despair.  
  
"Oh darling." I place my hands on either side of his face, and kiss those full lips, and he accepts the embrace, even surrenders to it. "Darling, I'm sorry I had to leave you. You clearly need me right now. You feel so guilty about betraying Walter, don't you?"  
  
His eyes are clouded now, with some emotion that's hard to read. He closes them, wearily, and when he opens them again they're blank.  
  
"I'd do it again," he says, with terrible self-knowledge. "That's what hurts. You think you're strong, that you'd do anything for the people you love, but that's a lie. When the going gets tough, all any of us care about is our own survival, isn't it?" Those hazel eyes are so watchful. I smile, and deflect his inquiry.  
  
"He wasn't good for you. I'm disappointed that you chose him as your masturbatory fantasy when I sucked you. Darling...you don't think...you surely don't think..." I laugh out loud, and he looks at me, those dull wits sharpened slightly by his own surprise. "You don't still hold on to some absurd fantasy that he'll ride up on his white stallion and rescue you, do you?" I ask. His eyes register a dreadful kind of pain. Ah, so this was his secretly cherished hope. Poor boy! "Darling." I pull him close and hug him. "Poor darling. He doesn't care about you. He abandoned you once and he's done it again."  
  
"I don't believe that, Larry," he says, stubbornly. He glances at the whip again, and shudders, then looks back at me for reassurance. "I'm sorry. I don't want to be punished, but I just don't believe that. Whatever happened between us all those years ago, he's always looked out for me since he took on the X Files. He's looking for me. Him and Scully."  
  
I'm very intrigued by his Walter Skinner now. Mulder is so very sure of the man as a person, if not as a lover. "Well, my darling, you'll forget about him. He isn't important any more. What is important is you; you and me. Did you enjoy feeling my mouth around your cock earlier?" He colors, and nods.  
  
"Good. Then wouldn't it be nice to return the favor...hmm?" I sit him up and he looks at me, that flush draining from his face. I slide over to the edge of the bed, and beckon to him. He flinches at the movement, clearly expecting a blow, or some kind of coercion. How endearing. Instead, I stroke his face, and he settles a little, leaning into the caress. "Darling, I want you to come and kneel between my legs," I instruct softly. He swallows hard, and his eyes flicker to the whip again. "I won't use it unless I have to," I promise him. "Don't make me have to, my sweet." He nods again, slides off the bed, and staggers, unsteadily, to a position between my legs. Ah, but this is nice! I look down on his lovely face, so full of promise, and put a finger on those divine lips. "You have beautiful lips, my pet," I croon. "They were made to suck cock. You do know that don't you? You were made to suck men, my love. But it's one thing to just suck, and another to perform. We need to teach you how to perform. I know you want to please me, don't you?"  
  
He looks so conflicted. On the one hand he wants to avoid pain, and he also wants to keep me happy so that I'll continue to comfort and love him, but on the other hand he has never exactly seen himself as a sexual being, which is a shame.  
  
"I know you don't have much experience, which is why I'm here to help." I caress his face lovingly. "I'm going to teach you how to be an expert. Men will line up just to feel those lush, warm lips on their cocks, my angel. Do you know that the first thing people think when they meet you is how it would feel to put their cocks between those exquisite lips? They want to bury themselves up to the hilt in this gorgeous mouth. Did you know that, my love?" He looks faintly astonished, and somewhat skeptical, which makes me laugh. "It's true! Ah, you are so estranged from your own sexuality, my dear! Your whole life has been your work, and your quest. You've observed sex, from the comfort of your couch, but you've so rarely ever participated. You haven't come to understand that you are sexual; you burn with sexuality, and I'm going to make it my task to instruct you in how to connect with that sexual side of yourself. When I'm done, you'll be in heat all the time, always ready and willing to suck, and come, and be mounted. Now, for your first lesson, I want you to suck me to the best of your ability. I'm not going to do a thing. I want you to arouse me."  
  
He kneels there, those hazel eyes mute with a variety of emotions. He wants to do as I say, because he wants to lose himself in the oblivion of not thinking for himself. He's still very tired and run down, and he needs time to recover. He dreads any further pain with a vengeance right now, and yet a tiny part of his heart rebels at being reduced to the role of whore. If only he could just let go. Finally, with trembling fingers, he opens my fly, and reaches inside as if searching for a deadly snake, his eyes fearful.  
  
"It won't bite, darling. Be more assured," I instruct, and he nods, locates my penis, and strokes it. It doesn't take much to have it springing into life. Just looking at those lips makes me want to sink myself between them. I'm soon hard, and he steels himself to do what he has to do next. I'm not remotely afraid that he'll decide to take a bite out of me; he might if he thought he could win his escape, but he knows that all he'd do is wound, and that would earn him the kind of pain he can't face right now. He looks at me again.  
  
"Larry...please don't make me," he begins, and I put a finger over his lips.  
  
"You'll enjoy it, darling. You're already salivating to feel my come in your throat. You can't wait to give in to the sexual side of your nature. You can't ignore it forever, my sweet. All these years of repression have taken their toll. You need to be unblocked. When you finally give in to your sexuality then you'll wonder at all those lost years. You'll wish that you had been sucking and screwing and enjoying the manifold pleasures of the flesh instead of sitting alone in a room with your video tapes."  
  
There are shadows in his eyes. The art of what I'm doing is to include a grain of truth in whatever I say. He might want to dismiss it out of hand, but there is always that nugget of honesty that prevents him. He has missed out for years, through his own personality and inhibitions, poor lamb. Now I will release him from those inhibitions. It'll be my pleasure.  
  
He licks his lips as if already anticipating the joy of sucking my cock, and then he lowers his head. His mouth is so warm, and my cock hardens even more as he slides his lips down the shaft.  
  
"All the way to the back of your throat, my dear," I instruct, leaning my hands back on the bed, and watching him critically. "There are a number of little tricks you might like to try. Deep-throating is always pleasurable of course, but you might also like to try fondling the balls as you work, like this."  
  
I put his hand on my testicles, and show him how to play with them to maximum effect. "And you can suck the crown, concentrate there…oh, very nice...lovely. That's delicious…see, I always knew we'd find a good use for that quicksilver tongue of yours." He's a little clumsy, but he's learning. I could come right now, but I won't. I'll hold it for a long time, to give him the practice he needs, and make his jaw ache a little. "Now, darling, you're doing very well, but some more joy in your eyes would be nice. This is such a delicious moment we're sharing isn't it?" His hazel eyes are still flat, and lifeless. They really do need to reflect a little more enjoyment. "Do look as if you're having a good time. Your relish for your work should show in those pretty eyes." His eyes remain resolutely tragic, as he continues to wrap those beautiful lips around my hard penis.  
  
"Mulder!" I snap sharply, and he stops what he is doing, flinches, and glances first at his whip, and then at me. "It isn't a race. You're not simply trying to get it over and done with as quickly as possible. You're taking your time. You're having fun."  
  
He nods, very slowly and uncertainly. "Fun," he repeats.  
  
"Yes, fun. Let's put it this way - this is more fun than being whipped isn't it?" I pluck the whip from the nightstand and his eyes widen in genuine fear. He leans back, away from me, as if he can escape which of course he can't. "Isn't it?" I ask again, tracing the whip over his naked chest. He nods, licking his lips nervously. "And you see, if I don't think you're enjoying sucking me, then I might just assume that you'd prefer me to be inside another part of your body instead."  
  
"No," he says desperately. "Please don't, Larry. It hurts. I'm torn. You said so yourself. You said so."  
  
"Well then." I put the whip around the back of his neck, and, holding both ends in my hands, draw him back to my groin. "You know what to do." And he does! He's a very quick learner. His eyes are shining brightly as he dips his face once more to his task, and he has a kind of strange grimace at the corners of his mouth, which I think is supposed to be a smile. It's a start.  
  
"You might like to stop every now and again, and tell me how much you're enjoying yourself, how pleasing it is having me in your mouth, how you like the feel of my cock, and it's appearance, how much it's turning you on," I instruct, and he blinks and sucks for a bit more, before he draws back.  
  
"Um, this is good," he mutters, still playing with my testicles in his hand. "This is…hot."  
  
I slide the whip back and forth around his neck. "A little more conviction please, dear heart," I murmur. This is often the hardest part for the new recruits. They can get so embarrassed.  
  
"You taste so good, Larry," he says, his hazel eyes burning with something more akin to rebellion than lust, but he's suffered too much to make that more overt. And he really does want to enjoy himself. He knows that if he could, then it would spare him pain, so he's longing for that. "I want to taste you again." He dips his head for another bout of sucking but I'm content with that much - he'll learn more in due course but he isn't doing too badly for a first attempt. I decide to reward him by pulling him closer with the whip, and thrusting hard into the back of his throat, over and over again, until I'm ready to come. He chokes a little - this level of oral penetration is hard for the inexperienced, but he does have to learn so I force the issue. Then I slow down, draw back a little way, and come on his tongue, so he can taste me, rather than straight down his throat, where he'll miss out on that delight. He swallows, almost retches, and, with one eye on me, tries to smile with an approximation of enjoyment. I release his neck, and smile.  
  
"Clean me up, dear boy. Every single drop." And he tongues my cock clean, but he's become dull and lifeless again, which isn't pleasing. I release the whip, and fix him with a stern glare. "All right, Mulder. That wasn't bad, but you can try harder. Go and stand facing the wall," I instruct.  
  
"Please...no," he whispers, his eyes fixed on the whip which I'm shaking out in preparation for what must come next.  
  
"Five strokes, darling. Then next time you'll do better."  
  
"Please." He buries his face in my groin, and I gently disengage him, lifting his chin so that I can look in his eyes.  
  
"Mulder, you need to learn the position I expect you to assume for punishment. When I tell you to adopt it you'll do so quickly, without argument. If you argue then the tally just goes up."  
  
"Larry I'm trying," he protests.  
  
"So now it's six and not five. Hurry, dearest. I don't want to hurt you any more than necessary."  
  
He has a brief moment of internal struggle, and then gets up and walks, despondently, to the wall. I follow him there, spread out his arms wide above his head, and slap his thighs apart.  
  
"This is the way you'll stand for punishment, spread-eagled. You won't move during punishment. If you do, then we'll start again. You can scream, but I don't want to hear you talk, or protest. Do you understand?"  
  
He nods, so I step back and begin. I don't do more than the minimum necessary to drum the lesson home, but, as I've said before, if a whipping is necessary at all then it should be delivered properly. There's no point promising one and then delivering something half hearted. He has to know he's been less than pleasing, so that he can adjust his behavior next time. That's the essence of good training. He turns his head sideways, presses his cheek flat against the wall, and grunts with each stroke, but he takes his six without otherwise complaining, and when it's done I turn his shaking, sweaty body around, and envelop him in an embrace. He clings to me, and I soothe him for a while.  
  
"There, my dear boy. You are learning. It could have been so much worse. Now, follow me into the salon and I'll feed you."  
  
I move into the salon, and sit, expectantly, on the couch, and, after hesitating for a moment in the doorway, he comes to sit beside me. His movements are still a little slow and stiff, but we'll soon restore that gangly grace to his limbs. I feed him again, and he opens his mouth obediently to take each bite. We've only just finished eating when I receive a call that one of my old trainees is on his way to visit, at my request. Marcus is one of my success stories. He's long since graduated out of the lounge and onto better things, and holds a position of some importance in the Syndicate now. He isn't one of the Elite yet, but one day he might be. He bounds into the room a few minutes later, a wide smile on his face. He's a very large boy now, quite fat, and his hair is gray at the temples, his cheeks ruddy. It's been about 20 years since I broke him but I still remember every delicious detail.  
  
"Laurence!" He exclaims.  
  
"Marcus." I kiss him on both cheeks, and he goes very still. Some lessons remain with the dear boys and girls forever. Marcus has been taking advantage of our facilities for many years. He lost his looks quite young, but luckily he had initiative and secured the patronage of one of the Elite, who took Marcus under his wing and trained him to use a weapon, and perform simple missions. Marcus progressed from there and I'm very proud of him. He glances at Mulder and smiles as he takes the seat I gesture him to.  
  
"Still working hard I see, Laurence!" Marcus remarks. He's gazing at Mulder with more interest now. "Isn't this…?"  
  
"Yes, it is." I stroke Mulder's hair and he looks at Marcus with hope in his eyes.  
  
"Please, if you can help me…" Mulder begins, obviously imagining that Marcus might be an ally to him. Marcus laughs out loud.  
  
"Hush, darling," I admonish softly, fondling Mulder's hair on my way over to the table where a fresh pot of tea is brewing. "Marcus isn't here to talk to you. He's come to visit me. My former trainees often stop by to spend some time with an old man."  
  
Mulder stares at Marcus with a look of profound disbelief in those hazel eyes. He doesn't really understand how deeply I can affect people's psyches, but he will.  
  
"You're lucky," Marcus remarks to Mulder, accepting the cup of tea I hand to him. "The Syndicate takes good care of their own. I've always had the best of everything. It's a good life." He settles back in his chair, his rather large stomach bulging over his pants as evidence of his words.  
  
"I think we can all see that Marcus," I tease and he grins, and pats his bulk affectionately.  
  
"But what's the price?" Mulder asks, one eye still fixed warily on me in case he's speaking out of turn, but I'm intrigued by what he has to say so I allow him to speak.  
  
"You haven't worked your magic on him yet then?" Marcus glances at me. Work my magic. Ah, what a wonderful way of describing what I do here.  
  
"No. Not yet." I fondle Mulder's hair again, affectionately, and return to the couch to sit next to him.  
  
"I was just a kid when I arrived." Marcus shrugs. "The Syndicate sent me on the best vacations, saw that I had the nicest food, and fantastic clothes. When I turned out pretty smart at using computers, they called in the best tutors to teach me. I saw what a good life it is, and how they take care of their own." He grins. "You'll think the same way too, very soon."  
  
Mulder's eyes are puzzled, but he wisely chooses not to speak.  
  
"Darling." I nudge Mulder's shoulder. "Marcus and I have something we need to discuss. Why don't you go and show him what you learned this morning while we talk." He turns his head slowly towards me, horror in his eyes. "Go on, dear heart. Marcus looks in need of some entertainment." I glance at Marcus and he smiles, broadly, and opens his fly without any further encouragement.  
  
"Hurry, my sweet, or you'll earn another whipping," I urge, settling back in the couch and stirring my tea. Mulder slides across the floor, like a dog with his tail between his legs, looking utterly wretched. Marcus opens his legs obligingly, and Mulder crouches between them. I swear that boy has shrunk since we brought him in. He looks much smaller as he bends his head and takes Marcus's cock into his mouth.  
  
"Marcus, it's your skill with computers that I wanted to discuss," I say, taking a sip of tea. Mulder slurps away noisily, and Marcus takes a sip of his own tea, one hand idly stroking Mulder's dark hair.  
  
"Anything you want to know, just ask!" Marcus exclaims. "Nothing is too much trouble for you, Laurence. Not when you provide such great entertainments." He grins down at Mulder.  
  
"It's very kind of you to say so. You see, I've read about this internet, and I'm intrigued by some of its functions. Would it be possible, for example, to set up some kind of…what are the words…live feed…using a camera, so that somebody could observe events from a distance without them being able to trace the source?"  
  
"Oh sure." He gives a little groan of pleasure, and smiles at me over Mulder's head. Mulder is going about things in his usual somewhat dispirited way. Luckily I have a couple of weeks to improve that side of things.  
  
"Oh, excellent!" I breathe. We discuss the details for a little while, and it really does seem to be relatively simple. Marcus comes, without missing a beat, and Mulder doesn't have to be urged to clean him up which shows how quickly he learns. He really is a very smart boy.  
  
Mulder is so exhausted after this brief interlude that I settle him back into the bed, lightly chained and gagged, and return to the salon to resume my conversation with Marcus. I have no idea how much Mulder either heard or understood of my conversation with my former trainee, but it really doesn't matter. It's irrelevant. After Marcus has left, I tiptoe back into the bedroom, and hold my dear boy as he sleeps. Tomorrow he will learn something new. It's such an honor to be his teacher, and watch him blossoming under my tutelage to become a really useful member of society.  
  
I wake before him as usual, and unchain and un-gag him before sitting down at my desk to work. He rolls over and goes straight back to sleep, which is good for him. It also means that I can have a few hours to myself. Every now and again I pause, and look over at the bed, where he lies sprawled in naked beauty. On one such occasion, I find him gazing at me with those dark, expressive eyes.  
  
"You're awake," I murmur, and he nods, his eyes devouring me. "Well, you should have said so, dear boy!" I exclaim. "You're not chained. You can come over and be with me. I expect you're lonely and need a morning cuddle - hmm?" I beckon and he slides out of the bed, and walks towards me, like a toddler taking his first steps towards a loving adult. He comes straight into my arms, and I pull him onto my lap and hold him, rocking him gently back and forth. "Darling, I have some more work to do, and I know you need to be close to me right now. Why don't you sit on the floor next to me, hmm?" He does as suggested, and his head rests against my thigh in a very pleasing way. After about ten minutes of silent work, I glance down at him, to find him staring hazily into space, his eyes unfocused.  
  
"Darling." I rap him firmly on the shoulder and he jumps. "I'm disappointed in you, dear heart," I inform him and he gazes at me in panic.  
  
"I'm sorry. What have I done?" He asks in a hoarse voice.  
  
"It would have been nice if you'd offered to pleasure me while I worked, my love. I'm very hurt that you haven't suggested it. I don't expect to have to make all the suggestions for our mutual enjoyment."  
  
"You want me to give you a blow job?" He licks his lips nervously.  
  
"No." I sigh. "I want you to want to give me a blow job. Do you understand the difference?" He nods, his hazel eyes intelligently storing all this away.  
  
"Larry, please let me suck you," he says, promptly and obediently.  
  
"What a delicious idea!" I clap my hands excitedly, and move my chair back a little so that he can crawl under the desk. I return to my work and pay him not the slightest heed as he works on my cock. It's soon hard, and it's very comforting to be able to work while my dear boy pays me such loving attention. He finishes, cleans me, and then emerges from under the desk.  
  
"That was lovely, my pet. Now, in future you'll remember to offer, won't you?" I say, and he nods, slowly, and thoughtfully. I pat his head, and continue working.  
  
"Larry." He interrupts me a few minutes later, and I glance down at him over the top of my glasses.  
  
"Hmm, my sweet?"  
  
"Marcus was one of your trainees?" This thought has clearly been gnawing at him.  
  
"Yes, dear heart. Twenty years ago. He was a very able boy. Not a natural between the sheets, unlike you, but still, a very able boy all the same. There isn't anyone I can't train, but few have your innate sexual allure, darling."  
  
"Innate sexual...?" He gives a funny little throaty laugh. "God, Larry, sometimes I wonder what you're on. I'm gawky, my nose is too big, and I have so little sexual appeal it's unreal. Trust me, I really don't ever have to beat back the hordes wanting to date me."  
  
"That's because it's all untapped inside you, dear one. We'll release it, but it is there." I tousle his hair affectionately.  
  
"Marcus…" He returns to the subject that is obsessing him, worrying at it like his namesake fox with a sheep. "He comes and visits you? He works for the Syndicate?"  
  
"Yes. That's what you'll do one day, my love. You'll live in your own apartment, and you'll go to your job at the FBI, but secretly you'll work for us. You'll come and visit me too, my dear. You'll probably make use of the facilities here. Once we get your libido racing I'm sure you'll be more than happy to avail yourself of the many delights Laurence's salon has to offer."  
  
"Twenty years?" He's still busy processing that piece of information. "You've been doing this for that long, Larry?"  
  
"Oh for longer than that." I smile at him. "So you can see what safe hands you're in, my love. I'm very experienced at what I do. You'll be my ultimate - the culmination of my career. I'll take good care of you. We'll break you down and build you back up again together. It isn't such a bad thing. You've seen Marcus - he leads a very happy life. And Alex, your old friend Alex Krycek - he's very content with his lot in life."  
  
"Alex Krycek was never exactly my friend," he snorts. "Christ, Larry, how did all this start? How did you figure out how to break the first person, and why?"  
  
"You have such an eager, inquiring mind." I smile at him fondly, deliberately not answering his question. "But you really do need to learn not to call me Larry. I did ask you to call me 'sir'."  
  
"I know." He looks up at me with a cheeky grin on his face. "But I think you like me calling you Larry."  
  
He's right, damn him! It's hard not to laugh at that wicked smile he has. He's teasing me! I can't remember when I was last teased. Few recruits dare, but then Mulder has always been different. He was different from the beginning. It's so strange - either they call me 'sir' as requested, or they show their defiance by calling me all kinds of unpleasant names, until I beat that out of them. None of them has ever called me Larry, or tried to make me smile. I know I should have corrected him before about his use of the diminutive form of my name, but there's just something about the way he says it; it sounds so affectionate, and intimate.  
  
"Let's keep Larry as a secret between us," I tell him in conspiratorial tones. "When we're in public I really must insist that you call me 'sir', but in private, maybe I'll let you get away with certain liberties." Sharing a secret is such a furtive, special thing! It's something lovers do. "Then again, maybe I won't." It's good to unsettle him. This way I can still punish him for it if I want, or not, however I please. "Now, my darling, I really must finish my paperwork. However…" I glance at him speculatively. "The dutyman over there looks a little bored." I gesture with my head in the direction of the doorway where the dutyman actually looks pretty much the same as usual. "Why don't you go and ask him if he'll let you suck him, hmm?" Mulder recoils. He glances at the dutyman, with real fear in his eyes. "What is it, my pet?"  
  
"He's one of those who pissed on me," he mutters.  
  
"He did what?" I frown. Mulder looks up, hope in his eyes.  
  
"They pissed on me, Larry."  
  
"Why did they do that? Did you upset them?"  
  
"I wouldn't run for them. They wanted me to run for them."  
  
"And you wouldn't?"  
  
"No. I lay down so they pissed on me," he says, his eyes registering the full horror of that experience.  
  
"Hmm. Well, that just won't do. I'll take care of that later when I've finished my work." I smile at him and he smiles back, genuinely heartened by my words, poor lamb! This gives me a delicious idea! I finish off my work quickly, and then put a belt on Mulder, and fasten his cuffs to it, before placing his blindfold over those beautiful eyes.  
  
"Where are we going?" he asks, clearly worried that he's being taken back to the Delivery Room.  
  
"Don't worry. I'm merely addressing the problem you had with the dutymen. Come with me." I pull him along the hallway, and he follows me so trustingly down to the dutymen's common room. The place is always a mess, and it smells, but it's their room, so I don't interfere. I remove Mulder's blindfold and unfasten his hands when we get there, and he glances around at the occupants of the room, blinking nervously.  
  
"All right, dear one. Point out to me the dutymen who urinated on you," I tell him. He swallows nervously, and the dutymen stare back at him, impassively. I can see various thoughts running through his head, not least of which is what retribution the dutymen will receive and the implications of that on his own safety. Finally, seeing no other option, he points out five faces with little nods of his head. I call the men forward, and have them stand in a line, then I turn back to address Mulder.  
  
"Darling, I'm very upset that you chose not to co-operate with my dutymen when they asked you to run for them," I tell him, and his eyes widen in a combination of surprise and confusion. "The dutymen do a very dull and boring job, watching over you, and occasionally having to pick you up and carry you when you get tired. It's only fair that they have a few little rewards here and there."  
  
"They raped me," he chokes.  
  
"Well they're allowed to play with you, my darling!" I laugh. "Now, in order to make it up to them I want you to go to each one and ask his permission to suck him." He stares at me, soullessly. "Run along, my dear boy. Don't make me wait or I might have to send you back to your room. And remember to enjoy yourself," I chuckle as he walks slowly towards the line of men. "Kneel, darling. That's right. Now ask him." Mulder looks up at the first man and swallows hard.  
  
"Please will you allow me to…" he falters, and we all wait. He must complete his task properly. "Suck you off," he finishes, his face as white as chalk.  
  
"Go ahead." The dutyman grins at me over Mulder's head, while Mulder reaches out to unzip the man's fly, and fondles him in a way that's fast becoming expert. Oh this is good! I had worried he'd fight some more and I'd have to beat him, but he's clearly terrified of going back to his room - or worse, the Recreation Room. He bends his head to the task, his eyes closed tightly, and although he performs adequately, he doesn't quite manage to imbue the act with any sense of enjoyment, despite my exhortations. He works his way down that line, asking each man for the honor of pleasuring him, and then applying himself to the task as if it's some kind of grim duty. He swallows down copious amounts of semen, which leaves him looking a little green when he's finished, and then he returns to my side.  
  
"Beautiful." I hug him, and then replace his blindfold and cuffs, and walk him back to the bedroom where I remove his restraints again. "We really will have to work on the enjoyment issue though, my sweet. Get into position. Five strokes."  
  
He goes without speaking this time, and accepts his strokes with the same silent sadness as he did the previous day. Afterwards I envelop him in another warm hug and hold him tight while he convulses against me. His eyes are dry, but he's weeping all the same, spasming with unshed tears.  
  
"It isn't much to ask is it, dear one?" I murmur. "Just to enjoy your work. It would save you so much pain."  
  
"I can't pretend it, sir," he whispers, and the absence of his usual wry-toned 'Larry' lances deep into my soul. I hadn't realized how much I'd miss it until it was gone.  
  
"Not pretend, darling. I'm not asking you to pretend. I'm asking you to really feel it. It feels good, doesn't it? Being sexual, giving pleasure." He gives no answer, but there is a look of such hopelessness that I feel myself becoming quite aroused. "Let's practice in private. We'll go over it until you satisfy me," I tell him, sitting on the side of the bed. "If you do well, then we'll eat, and take a Jacuzzi together. If you don't then I'll send you back to your room to be tied down harshly for the night."  
  
It hasn't been very long since he last pleasured me, and I'm astonished by how aroused he makes this old man. I don't think I've ever trained a recruit who had the power to arouse me more. I sit on the side of the bed, and, after thinking about it for a moment, he comes over. I'm annoyed that he has to think about it, but that's something we'll work on. He's still putting too much thought into everything; he needs to accept, to act more on instinct and order. He should be interpreting less and responding more. He kneels in front of me, and rests his hands on my knees.  
  
"I'm tired, sir," he murmurs, looking at me hopefully. This is the interesting thing about him. He knows that I am the source of his most intense suffering, and yet also that I am the only one who will comfort him, or offer him any kindness. The duality of that role sometimes confuses recruits, but he seems to have a very good handle on it. He's always trying to reach the Larry who comforts, while at the same time he's trying to disarm Laurence with smiles, and that dry toned, almost inflectionless, teasing voice of his. It's possible that he might even succeed on occasion - but not this time.  
  
"I know, my love. Just do this properly and I'll allow you to wash out your mouth, and eat, and then sleep some more."  
  
He swallows, and it's clear that the idea of being able to wash out his mouth is very appealing to him right now.  
  
"But what if I can't please you?" He asks. "What if I'm just not good enough?"  
  
"You can be, darling. I'm convinced of that. I just want you to let go, and put everything you can into your task. Do that, and I won't have to send you back to your room."  
  
He fixes me with a steady gaze. Even despite his suffering, there's something going on in those hazel eyes, something I can't always read, and that disturbs me a little. I'm usually very good at reading my recruits and while sometimes Mulder is quite transparent in both thought and feeling, at other times, like now, there is something going on behind the surface of those thoughtful orbs that eludes me.  
  
He takes a deep breath, and manages a smile. I see that he's resolved to do his best. He opens my pants, and my cock springs to life, eager to be out of its confinement.  
  
"What have we got here?" Mulder murmurs. "Looks like you're pleased to see me, Larry." Ah, the return of the 'Larry'. I can't tell you how much that makes my heart sing. "I like that I can make you so hard," he whispers. Oh, this is very good. I reward him by stroking his hair and beaming at him encouragingly.  
  
"You're pretty big, Larry. Very impressive," he comments. In truth I'm no more than average in size, but it's a sweet compliment all the same. "I can't wait to wrap my mouth around your big, hard dick," he says, his eyes shining in a dreamy kind of way. Oh! Adorable!  
  
He lowers his head, and takes one long lick along my shaft, his eyes raised to my face the whole time with a cheeky, knowing look. Then he actually winks at me, and we share one of those 'moments' that make the world stand still - and my cock goes rigid with need. A second later, without any warning, he takes my whole cock into his mouth and sucks down hard, making me moan out loud in surprise and pleasure. His talented fingers find my testicles, and he plays with them as he works. He includes all the little tricks I've taught him, tonguing the tip of my cock, then taking me whole into his mouth, and all the time he has a look of rapt, joyful concentration on his face. He doesn't look at me again - he is completely obsessed by my cock, and in between licks and sucks he's murmuring sweet nothings about how much he loves doing this, and how hard I am, and how he's going to make me come harder and faster than I've ever come before...it's quite phenomenal. I knew he could be as focused in sex as he has been in his quest, and it's a joy to be on the receiving end of all that ability. Finally, unable to hold on any more, I come inside that beautiful mouth, and he continues to slide my spent cock between his lips until my convulsions have subsided, and I'm utterly sated.  
  
"Oh darling!" I exclaim, pulling his head up to my waist, wrapping my arms around him, holding him tight, and petting his hair, back and face. "That was perfect. You see - it's easy when you try isn't it?" I grasp his lovely face between my hands and look down on him with gleeful affection.  
  
"Yes, it is," he agrees, a little smile playing on his lips. I caress the upturned corners of his mouth with gentle strokes of my fingertips; so playful, smirking almost, even...triumphant? My grip on his face becomes tighter, and I wrap one of my fists in his hair, pulling his head back.  
  
"You were thinking of Walter weren't you?" I hiss, and his eyes flash the answer before his lips say the word. He doesn't lie; he knows there is no point in lying.  
  
"Yes," he replies. "I'm sorry, Larry. Yes I was."  
  
A fury rises in my breast, and before I realize what I'm doing I find myself slapping him hard across the jaw, first one way, and then the other. He hangs in my grasp, his jaw stained a blotchy red by my blows, and I gaze at him in surprise. Was that anger? Real, genuine, blinding anger? I can't remember the last time I lost my temper with a recruit at this stage in the proceedings. Usually I'm so in control. Damn him. I drop him, and he scuttles out of arm's reach and crouches down in the tiny gap between the nightstand and the bed, his arms around his knees for protection. I take a few deep breaths and decide on a course of action to remedy the situation.  
  
"Darling, I'm sorry." I bend down in front of him, and hold out my hand. "I was taken by surprise. Come on out, my sweet. I won't beat you. I just want to talk to you." He eyes me warily, and I move a step forward. I could call the dutyman to move the bed, but then the whole matter would get blown out of all proportion and I don't want that right now.  
  
"Darling…just take my hand. I want to put a cold washcloth on your jaw. You'll be fine. I don't want you to bruise. Not when you're starting to get your pretty looks back. Come here, my sweet."  
  
His eyes are still cautious as he weighs it up, but he knows he can't stay there forever. Finally, slowly and hesitantly, like his namesake fox creeping close for food, he reaches out his hand and slips it into mine, so I can help him slide out from his little sanctuary. I sit down on the bed, and draw him onto my lap, clasping him around the waist, and just hold him. After several long minutes his arms slowly, oh so slowly, move into position around my shoulders, and he rests his head on my shoulder, his cheek against my face.  
  
"There, that's good. Tell me, my sweet, because I need to understand. The Walter you used to talk to, your young lawyer, who you would look at sometimes, and speak with - he went, didn't he?"  
  
Mulder exhales a long, deep, tragic breath and nods against my shoulder. "I don't think he was real, Larry. He went away when I betrayed him. He hasn't come back since."  
  
"Very well…so when you fantasize now, are you fantasizing about him?"  
  
He's still for a long time, and then I feel him shaking his head against my shoulder, and his fingers clutch onto me for support.  
  
"So, when you just sucked me, you weren't remembering him, your young lawyer - you were using a more recent masturbatory fantasy?" I inquire gently, pushing him away and looking into his eyes. "You were thinking about your boss, weren't you?" He blushes furiously, but he nods, his eyes downcast. "You've probably sat in meetings with him, and imagined taking him in your mouth. It must have been hard, knowing that you once had the right to do that - you once had the intimacy to pleasure him, in the way you loved doing, but now so many years have passed, and you no longer have that right...and yet the emotions are still there, stronger than ever. Is that so, my darling?"  
  
"Something like that, Larry." He gives a lop-sided, bitter grin. "Walter's one of those men who gets better looking with age. I was a bit thrown by the lack of hair, in the beginning," he gives a little laugh, "but now it kind of obsesses me. It's a part of him I haven't known and I want to. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to run my hands over his bare scalp, and to lick it," he admits, shamefaced.  
  
"I see. So, now your lawyer has gone, but the Assistant Director has taken his place."  
  
"I don't have any other frame of reference, Larry," he tells me honestly, his hands still clutching onto me for dear life. "He's the only man I ever slept with. I know you probably think that's weird, and you're right…my sex life has always been a disaster. I've wanted other men since Walter - hell, I've wanted women, but I don't have the right skills to get them into bed. I bore them senseless talking about my work, or I don't have anything to say at all. Sometimes I think I've spent too much time in my office, too long wrapped up in my quest. I don't have the ability to just be with normal people any more. I know so much. I've seen so much…I guess I find it hard making allowances for people who don't know, and haven't seen. They seem so...I don't know. We have nothing in common. Skinner though…he knows about me. He understands."  
  
It's quite a little speech. I hug him reassuringly. "I know, my darling," I tell him. "I understand."  
  
"With all due respect, Larry, you don't," he replies in that dry, flat, monotone. "You just see me as some kind of sex object. You seem to think my work isn't a part of me when it's been almost all of me for years. You don't want to know about my work on the X Files, you just ask about my sex life, my past liaisons, what I feel, what turns me on. You're not really interested in me, Larry, only in making me into the same as everyone else you've broken."  
  
What an interesting analysis. I knew there was so much more to him than I've ever found in my other recruits. I love the way his mind works; so thoughtful, so smart.  
  
"Darling, you think too much," I tell him with a little squeeze. "You need to think a lot less. Now, I have a little plan to help you with your Skinner issues." It would seem that while I have rid him of his lover, the lawyer, Walter, I have yet to disengage his affection from his object of desire, the boss, Skinner. I think what I have planned might do that. "I want to help you, to free you of Walter Skinner so that you can enjoy yourself."  
  
He stiffens in my arms. "Ah, I can see you remember the last time I helped you on this issue." I smile at him, and his eyes are almost incandescent with fear. "I'm sure you don't want that to happen again, so I want you to throw yourself into your work for the next few days. If you do that, then I won't have to beat you, will I?" I murmur, stroking his hair. "I don't want to beat you - I want this lovely white skin unblemished. Will you be obedient, dear heart? Will you do your best?"  
  
He nods, eagerly, anxious to avoid a repeat of his most recent experience downstairs. He has no idea that he's playing into my hands in a way that will be equally devastating to his psyche. Hopefully, by the time I take him to the Syndicate building he'll be under control, and obedient, even if he isn't broken yet, and will still need constant supervision.  
  
That train of thought reminds me of the impending nightmare of leaving my little salon and venturing outside. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise, and a wave of nausea deep in the pit of my stomach. I have no choice, I'm aware of that, but the fear sickens me. I find myself holding onto Mulder now, my hands trembling slightly as I stroke his body in an attempt to soothe myself. He doesn't know what's going on, but he seems to sense something. His arms are big, and strong, and warm around me. He has such pleasing muscles. I can see why his Walter Skinner appeals to him. He isn't as broad as the Assistant Director, but he's still an imposing man. His hands stroke my back in little circles. Does he know he's comforting me or is he just comforting himself through the human contact? He is certainly smart enough to have figured out that when I'm stroking and caressing him then I'm not whipping or hurting him, and his strategy recently has been to play on that, and to try and induce a caring response in me wherever possible, and not to anger or cross me. It takes me some minutes to compose myself. I wish I didn't have this visit to the Syndicate hanging over me. I wish I could just enjoy being with him, and breaking him. My mind goes over my plans in respect of Walter Skinner. Really, that man is most fascinating. I look forward to having some contact with him, and measuring up my rival on a one to one basis. Mulder is sleepy. I can hear the change in his breathing. It's time to bring our little tete a tete to an end. I gently disengage him and help him to lie down on the bed where he closes his eyes and falls asleep almost immediately. I fetch a cold washcloth and press it against his slightly reddened jaw, but I'll feed and bathe him properly later. It'll be a pleasure. For now, I need some space to recover from what was almost a panic attack. I also need to set some plans in motion.  
  
After four days of hard work, I finally have a Mulder who is ready. I've spent considerable amounts of time training him in the art of giving pleasure with his mouth, and now he goes about his work with relish, and skill, although it's clear to my expert eye that the former is entirely feigned. I haven't beaten him for days, and he's been fed the finest food and given painkillers, as well as antibiotics. His hair is starting to shine again, and his bruises have faded. We've nearly come to the end of this particular lesson. I'll soon be able to start sinking myself into his ass again, which is a joy I'm looking forward to. As I've taught him how to give efficient, spirited fellatio, so I will teach him how to also give pleasure during anal intercourse. By the time I bring him before the Elite, only an expert would be able to tell the difference between him and my broken recruits; and the Elite are not experts.  
  
I decide that the 'event' I have planned will have to take place in the Delivery Room - that's best equipped to deal with the complex technological requirements. I leave Mulder asleep in my bed, and retire to my salon, where I sit for a while, drawing my thoughts together for the call I'm about to make. I have Walter Skinner's cell phone number, and, when I've composed myself, I dial it. It rings twice before he answers it.  
  
"Skinner." It's a deep, steady voice. Not flat, like Mulder's tones, but charged, and firm, full of resolve.  
  
"Hello, Mr. Skinner. I'm delighted to finally make your acquaintance. I've heard so much about you."  
  
"Who is this?" I sense a trace of impatience. He isn't a man who likes to be toyed with. How unfortunate for him.  
  
"I'm a friend of a friend," I purr, warming to my theme and feeling a delicious thrill running through me.  
  
"Is this about Mulder?" He comes to that conclusion very quickly. Mulder is clearly on his mind.  
  
"Yes it is. I understand that you've been looking for him."  
  
"Do you know where he is? Do you have him? Can I talk to him? Is he all right?" Ah, such a worried torrent of questions. I can just imagine that wide brow furrowed in puzzled concern as he talks. He's clearly very anxious. Maybe he still carries the same candle for Mulder in his heart that Mulder carries for him. It wouldn't surprise me. I think the pair of them are idiots, to be honest. So many years of wasted time; it's criminal.  
  
"He's more than all right. He's very well. He won't be coming back just yet though, I'm afraid. He's enjoying himself far too much."  
  
"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Look, is he there? Put him on. I want to talk to him." He's so imperative, so dismissive. It irks me.  
  
"You don't give me orders, Mr. Skinner," I snap. I hear him take a sharp intake of breath, but he's playing for Mulder's life here, so he's not about to screw this up.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr…" He waits, but I don't supply a name. "Look, I'm really worried about Mulder," he continues. "Can't you tell me where he is?"  
  
"I told you, he's fine, but he can't come to the phone right now."  
  
"Then how do I know he's okay?" He asks desperately. "How do I know this isn't some kind of hoax?"  
  
"It isn't a hoax, Mr. Skinner. I can prove that to you. If you want evidence that Mulder is alive, and well, and doing fine, then be in your apartment, in front of your computer screen, at 8 PM. You have internet access?"  
  
"Of course. What the hell…?"  
  
"Just be there, Mr. Skinner. And keep this line free so that I can give you directions when the time comes."  
  
And with that, I end the call. He won't be able to trace it. It was too short, it was to his cell phone, and, in any case, all Syndicate calls are routinely re-routed in the most torturous way so they travel halfway around the world before reaching their destination.  
  
I treat Mulder to the most perfect day. I let him help me with my paperwork - settling some simple little invoices and filing them - but he seems delighted to be given something to do that doesn't involve sex. Maybe he thinks I'm starting to see that 'other side' of him that he spoke about, but really I just want to keep the boy occupied before his big performance. The chef makes him his favorite meal - meatloaf followed by chocolate pie, and I allow him to eat it sitting up at the table in the salon, using a knife and a fork, rather than having him suffer the indignity of being fed. He grins delightedly all the way through.  
  
"What is this, Larry? Is it my birthday, or something?"  
  
I just smile, and pat his arm tenderly. I don't eat anything myself. I'm far too keyed up about the coming event. Later, I bathe him, and then I massage him all over, with a blend of oils that smell almost as divine as the dear boy himself. Finally, as evening approaches, I rouse him from his nap, and fasten him to his belt, before placing his blindfold over his eyes.  
  
"Where are you taking me, Larry?" He asks, anxiously.  
  
"Back to your room, dear boy," I tell him, tugging on the chain fixed to his belt.  
  
"My room? Why? I've done everything you asked me, Larry. I've tried!" He protests, stubbornly digging his heels in, and refusing to move. "You haven't had to beat me for ages, Larry. Please don't take me back there."  
  
"You do try, Mulder, but you don't convince me," I tell him harshly, enlisting the aid of the dutymen to manhandle him out of the door and along the hallway. He comes finally, his breathing harsh and labored, and I can see that his overactive mind is supplying a plethora of atrocities that will soon be committed on his naked, vulnerable body.  
  
I remove his blindfold and unbuckle his belt and cuffs when we get to the Delivery Room, leaving him completely naked, and he blinks in the dim light.  
  
"Please, Larry…sir," he says urgently. "I thought you were pleased with me."  
  
"Not quite pleased enough." I smile pleasantly. "You see, the problem is that while you do very well in your sessions with me, you don't apply yourself so well when I ask you to pleasure other men. I need to believe that you'll do your best when I ask you to suck other men, even if I'm not in the room to supervise you, but at the moment you're nowhere near achieving that. It's a failing we need to address, Mulder."  
  
"I'll try harder. I'm sorry," he says desperately.  
  
"Well..." I pretend to hesitate. "I suppose I could give you one last chance."  
  
"Please…just tell me what you want me to do," he asks eagerly, his eyes glancing nervously around the room, and over to the instruments of pain that are displayed neatly on their shelves. He shivers as he notices the speculum, and that's a very sweet sight.  
  
"Well, why don't you put on a little show for me?" I beckon over the dutyman I have selected for this task. He's a handsome man, tall, with dark hair, and broad, muscular shoulders. "I tell you what, Mulder. I'll go next door and watch while you impress me. How does that sound?" He's certainly smart enough to have figured out that the mirror is of the observational, two-way variety.  
  
"I can do that, sir," he says urgently. "I'll do my best."  
  
"Good boy. If you aren't convincing enough then I'm afraid that I'll have to keep you down here for a few days, so make sure you do your best work. The dutyman's name is Paul. I want you to pleasure him to the best of your ability. If you do well then you can come back upstairs. Otherwise..." I give a shrug, and allow my gaze to flicker over to the large, steel anal speculum. Mulder licks his lips nervously, and keeps nodding, psyching himself up.  
  
Paul takes up the position I have already discussed with him. He'll keep Mulder in place, right beneath the overhead camera Marcus positioned for me earlier. It's in a dark corner of the room, and Mulder won't see it. He has other things on his mind after all, and it's very unobtrusive. The camera is carefully positioned to focus on the two men, and doesn't pry into the shadowy shelving, where the more alarming equipment is stored.  
  
"I'll be next door, watching, dear heart," I tell Mulder, kissing those dry lips in order to soothe him. "I want you to really take your time, and remember to talk to Paul, and make him feel appreciated."  
  
He nods, and I unlock the door to the Observation Room to step inside. Marcus is already there, shirtsleeves rolled up, a broad grin on his face.  
  
"How did you think this shit up, Laurence?" He asks. "It's crazy, and so fucking good."  
  
"Natural genius, my boy." I pat his arm fondly. "Are we ready to go?"  
  
"Oh yeah. This is the website." He brings up the site on his laptop computer screen. "And we just bring in the live feed."  
  
He presses some buttons and the next thing I know Mulder and Paul flicker onto our screen. The room is dimly lit, lending the footage an orange tone, but all the same the film is clear enough.  
  
"Ah, the marvels of modern technology!" I smile at Marcus fondly. "You really are very clever, my dear. I have no idea how it's all done!" He flushes slightly, and looks immensely proud of himself. It's good to know that my praise still means so much to him, even after all this time. I glance back into the room. Mulder is reaching into Paul's pants for his cock. Paul says something, and Mulder pushes the dutyman's pants down around his ankles, revealing his naked butt. It looks so much more intimate that way. Then Paul removes his tee shirt, as previously instructed, and asks Mulder to play with his nipples. Mulder does so immediately, with eagerness, those beautiful lips kissing and caressing. His mouth trails down to Paul's groin, and I glance at my watch; five minutes past eight. Skinner has had a few minutes to sweat. I turn to Marcus, and nod to him. "Send him the email."  
  
Then I pick up the cell phone Marcus has provided, and call Skinner.  
  
"Skinner. Are you the man who called earlier?" He asks, almost immediately.  
  
"Yes, I am. I have that proof you required, Mr. Skinner. This is a live visual. I want you to go to your email program and follow the link we've sent you. Then you'll see your Agent Mulder alive and well."  
  
"What the…?" I can hear tapping, so I presume that he's doing as instructed. A few seconds later I hear a muffled, "Christ."  
  
I glance through the window, and see Mulder sucking Paul with considerable enthusiasm, his hands kneading the dutyman's naked buttocks.  
  
"What the fuck is this?" Skinner demands. "That isn't Mulder."  
  
"Oh yes. It is. Hold on while I prove it to you."  
  
I put him on hold, and press the intercom between the two rooms, signaling to Marcus to cut the sound to the website momentarily, so I can give Mulder some stage directions without Skinner overhearing. "Very good, darling, but draw back a bit, do some talking. I want to see the expression on your face."  
  
Mulder does as he's been told, and now there can be no doubt that it is indeed he; naked, kneeling in front of a handsome man, giving head with considerable relish and enthusiasm. I signal to Marcus to restore the audio.  
  
"Your dick is so big, and hard. I'm going to make you come, Paul," Mulder's saying, desperately trying to convince me not to torture him.  
  
I pick up the phone again. "Convinced, Mr. Skinner?" I ask him.  
  
"Christ what is this? I don't understand," he says in a low growl. "What have you done to him?"  
  
"Done? Nothing. He's just enjoying himself. You can see what a good time he's having. He clearly isn't being forced. No, your Agent Mulder has just gotten in touch with his true nature. I'm sure you understand what that is, Mr. Skinner."  
  
There's a shocked silence. "What the hell are you talking about?" He asks, in a grim, low tone.  
  
"Fox has told us all about you. How you were his first. He's found other, more compatible mates now, though. He's much happier with us than he ever was with you."  
  
There's silence. Mulder deep throats Paul, who gives a moan of contentment. He winds his hand in Mulder's hair. "That's good, Fox. That's so good," he murmurs over and over again.  
  
"What has he told you?" Skinner asks, in a neutral voice, but I can sense pure steel under the reasonable tones; this is a dangerous man.  
  
"That you were a disappointing lover. That he's been looking for someone better. He and Paul have gotten very close. Fox has decided to stay here for a while so you can stop looking for him, Mr. Skinner."  
  
"I don't believe a goddamn word you're saying. If this is true, let me talk to him," Skinner says, in a low, hoarse voice.  
  
"I'm sorry. His mouth is otherwise engaged at the moment, and besides, he doesn't want to talk to you. However, if you'd like more proof…" I press the intercom again. "Dear heart, are you enjoying Paul?" I ask. Mulder stops what he's doing, and looks at the mirror. His lips are swollen from sex, and he looks sultry, and sensual. His dark hair has flopped into his eyes and he's glowing with a fine sheen of sweat.  
  
"Oh yeah," he says, smiling, putting on the performance of his life for me.  
  
"Good. Is he better than Walter Skinner?" I ask. My tones ring out in the small room, clearly audible on the computer, as well as next door. Mulder hesitates, his eyes unsure, but he knows what I want from him.  
  
"Oh yeah," he says again. "Much better. This is so hot." He moves his head forward and catches Paul's cock in his mouth once again. I cut the connection and return to the phone.  
  
"So you see, Fox is fine. He doesn't need any help. He just wants to be left alone to enjoy his sexuality."  
  
"I don't believe any of this," Skinner whispers hoarsely.  
  
"Why not? Just because you couldn't give him any satisfaction doesn't mean that someone else can't," I laugh, taunting him. It feels good to land a body blow on my rival. I can imagine that he doesn't look so powerful and in control now. I can see him in my mind's eye, the top couple of buttons on his shirt undone, his tie loosened as he paces around his apartment, always remaining in sight of the screen.  
  
"Why don't you sit down, put your feet up, and watch for a while," I invite. "It's a hot scene. Fox is putting on a little show for us. He's quite an exhibitionist. You might like to open your fly and jack off."  
  
"Who the fuck are you?" He sounds almost faint, and disgusted beyond belief. Our Mr. Skinner is clearly as buttoned up and repressed as his ex-lover.  
  
"I'm a friend of Fox's. He and I are pretty close. Doesn't he look good, Mr. Skinner? Aren't you aroused? Maybe you'd like to imagine it's your cock he's sucking." I let that thought hang between us.  
  
"Listen, you son of a bitch, I don't know who the hell you are, but I'm going to find out," he snaps.  
  
"Mr. Skinner," I chide. "Fox told me about you, and how you won't believe unless you see with your own eyes. Well, you're seeing, Mr. Skinner. Believe. Fox doesn't want to be rescued. Fox is enjoying himself far too much. He's sick of you and the Bureau. Sick of the hypocrisy and lies he's been fed all his life. Here he can be himself, and that's why he wants to stay. It's his choice."  
  
"His choice?" Skinner's tone is skeptical.  
  
"Well doesn't he look like he's having a good time?" I urge. There is silence for a heartbeat, and then two.  
  
"You're such a stallion, Paul," Mulder is saying. Oh dear, the poor boy really has been watching too many porn videos. "I love having you in my mouth. Come inside me, Paul." Paul's head is flung back, and he's thrusting to and fro in wild abandon.  
  
"Well?" I ask Skinner.  
  
"Mulder's okay?" He asks, clearly uncertain about what he's seeing. "He isn't hurt?"  
  
"He's fine. You can see for yourself." From this angle, with this lighting, none of the fading whip marks and bruises on Mulder's back and buttocks are evident.  
  
"Are you making him do this?" Skinner's tone is confused, and strangulated. I can just imagine that he can't tear his eyes away from the screen.  
  
"Even if we were holding a gun to his head out of the range of the camera, do you think that he could perform with such relish, and skill under duress?" I taunt. Mulder chooses this moment to glance up, a look of total, if feigned, lust in his eyes.  
  
"Come for me, Paul," he says. "I love it when you come in my mouth so I can taste you." I can hear a choking sound down the other end of the line that sounds like Skinner having some kind of apoplectic fit.  
  
"I think I've seen enough," he says, in a ghost-like tone. "That's very interesting evidence you have there."  
  
"I thought you'd enjoy it."  
  
"Enjoy isn't the word for it," he says gruffly. Then, in a more desperate tone: "Mulder doesn't want to talk to me?" Ah, that's Walter talking, not AD Skinner. There is a soft center under that hard exterior.  
  
"No. He doesn't care about you. He doesn't give a damn about you in fact."  
  
"I see." It's barely more than a whisper, and there's a little break in his voice. "What do you want?" He asks, trying to regain his composure. "Why show me this?"  
  
"Just to convince you to stop looking for him. Let him go, Mr. Skinner. He isn't interested in you any more."  
  
There's a heavy sigh on the other end of the line, part frustration, part shock but any reply Skinner might have made is cut off by the sound of Paul noisily reaching climax in the other room. He comes in Mulder's mouth and Mulder swallows as if he's eating a gourmet feast. He really is putting on the performance of his life, dear boy. If only he knew who else was watching.  
  
"Do you need any more proof, Mr. Skinner?" I ask.  
  
"No. I'll take your message under advisement," he snaps, in the language of the lawyer he once was, completely ill-equipped to handle this.  
  
"Good." I break the connection and signal to Marcus to end the transmission. He does so with a thumbs-up sign and a grin.  
  
"That went well," he comments.  
  
"He won't be able to trace the site?" I ask.  
  
"No chance. False names, false addresses, our own server specially set up for the task." He shrugs.  
  
"Thank you, Marcus." I put my hand on his shoulder, and am gratified to feel him stiffen just the smallest degree. Dear creature. They never forget. "As a reward, there's a young lady waiting for you in room fourteen. She's wearing that clothing that excites you so much." I smile at him, and his eyes light up enthusiastically. I rewind the tape from the phone I was using until it reaches the desired place, put it in my pocket, and then return to the Delivery Room. Mulder looks at me eagerly as I enter, still on his knees, his chest heaving from the exertion.  
  
"Did I do all right, sir?" He asks anxiously.  
  
I stand looking down into those hopeful, hazel eyes, and smile, gently. "Yes, my dearest. You did very well indeed. You can return to the bedroom." He looks so relieved, poor lamb. I replace his blindfold, cuffs, and belt, and walk him back upstairs, while he's talking all the time.  
  
"You know, Larry, there's no need to send me back to that room again," he's saying. "And you know, about this blindfold - you don't need to use this any more. Haven't I proven that I'm trying? I thought we had something between us, Larry. You know, some kind of trust." There he goes again - trying to appeal to my kind side. It's very sweet and utterly pathetic.  
  
"Darling." I lead him into the bedroom, sit him down on the side of the bed to remove his blindfold and unfasten his cuffs from the belt. "You're just buying time, my sweet," I tell him. "You're trying to keep me from hurting you too much because you've convinced yourself that Skinner will be along soon to rescue you. You think that all you have to do is bide your time, and keep me happy until then." His eyes reflect the truth of what I've said, although he tries to keep them expressionless.  
  
"I'm doing all you ask of me, Larry," he replies. "I'm trying."  
  
"But you're dreaming of rescue. You feel sure it won't be long now, but you're wrong, dear heart. Very wrong."  
  
He gazes at me silently, unsure where this is heading. "Didn't I do okay just now? With Paul." He licks his lips nervously.  
  
"Oh yes. I loved watching you, and I know Skinner enjoyed the show as well." I allow that little bombshell a few seconds to sink in.  
  
"Skinner…? What are you saying?" His quick brain is trying to fill in the gaps, and figure out what I've done.  
  
"I mean that we taped you, darling, and put your hot little scene with Paul on the net. I was talking to your Walter Skinner while he watched the whole thing. He sounded very aroused." I smile, watching every single last hint of color drain from his face, almost in slow motion.  
  
"Skinner watched?" he whispers.  
  
"Oh yes. He sounded very aroused. Would you like to hear the tape?"  
  
I take it out of my pocket, put it in the machine on my desk, and then press play.  
  
"Come for me, Paul." That's Mulder's voice, and his jaw tightens and clenches as he hears it. "I love it when you come in my mouth so I can taste you."  
  
There's that small, shocked sound from Skinner, and then he speaks: "I think I've seen enough." Mulder blanches even more when he recognizes Skinner's voice, and, even worse, hears that heartbreaking little catch in Skinner's voice. "That's very interesting evidence you have there."  
  
"I thought you'd enjoy it." Me.  
  
"Enjoy isn't the word for it. Mulder doesn't want to talk to me?" Mulder can't miss the resigned sadness in Skinner's tones there; he flinches as if he's been hit, and then bows his head, his fists clenching and unclenching uselessly at his sides.  
  
"No. He doesn't care about you. He doesn't give a damn about you in fact."  
  
"I see."  
  
I turn off the tape quickly. "He agreed to stop looking for you. He could see you were happy enough here," I tell Mulder. "So you can see that nobody is going to rescue you. I mean, why would Skinner carry on looking for you when he's seen you give head to another man with such enjoyment and relish?"  
  
Mulder is gazing at me, his mouth hanging slightly open.  
  
"I didn't know anybody could be so evil," he whispers. "Not after all I've seen, and all I've been through. I never…" He breaks off, all the life drained out of him, and then suddenly, without warning, he charges. He takes both the dutymen and me by surprise, flinging himself across the room, his arms going around my midriff as he tackles me to the floor. We both land with a grunt, and he tries to land a punch, but he just doesn't have the energy. It's as if he's been drained dry, and he slumps easily into the arms of the dutymen as they pull him off me. He's gasping for breath as they carry him over to the bed and dump him there. I don't think I've ever seen him in greater pain, not even when I've been torturing him. He's wheezing, his face the palest shade I've ever seen it.  
  
"It's all right, darling boy. I forgive you your little outburst. It's hard saying goodbye to one lover, in order to let a new one into your life." I stroke his back gently, while he kneels on all fours, trying to catch his breath. "Just let him go, dear one. He didn't put up a struggle for you, so you don't need to put up one for him. I'm here for you now." I roll onto the bed beside him, and put my arms around his body, pulling him close so that his naked back is against my chest. He's too winded to resist and lies there, listlessly, in my arms. "That's right," I croon. "Poor boy. You're feeling all alone in the world, but there's no need for that. I'm going to take good care of you. I'm going to be here beside you. I'll fill the gap he left behind. Hush, hush." I undo my fly, release my aroused cock, and gently part his buttocks. "There, there. I'm here now." I thrust hard inside him with one smooth stroke, and he gives an inarticulate little cry. "There. Hold still. It's just you and me. He's gone. Walter's gone. There's no need to waste your life hoping for him any more. Hush, hush." I rock gently but insistently inside him, then thrust with more force, back and forth, while he's a dead weight in my arms. I continue to pound into him for some time before climaxing, but even then I don't withdraw, but remain buried deep inside him. "I'll stay here, dear boy. Just to remind you that you're not alone. Hush, we can sleep together. There." I motion with my head, and one of the dutymen comes over to tie Mulder's hands above his body, but I shake my head when he picks up the gag. I don't want to obstruct any of Mulder's airways right now. He's having enough trouble breathing as it is, and it wouldn't be a good idea to make it even harder for him.  
  
"Dear boy. Everything's all right now isn't it?" I whisper. "Hmm?" I squeeze him, enjoying the warmth of his ass around my softened cock.  
  
"Oh Christ, Larry, what have you done to me?" He whispers, in the tiniest, most lost of voices. "What the hell have you done?"  
  
*****  
  
Mulder lay awake in the darkness, watching shadows on the walls. He couldn't figure out whether the shadows were real. Where was the light source? Maybe the shadows weren't real. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks. It felt good to be resting here, pondering this issue. He felt very peaceful. He remembered, as a child, watching the lights of the cars passing outside, seeping around the edges of drapes. There were no drapes here, because there were no windows. What kind of a building had no windows? There had to be windows somewhere. Was that why they blindfolded him when they walked him between rooms? Was it just the basement and the rooms that Laurence occupied that had no windows?  
  
"Larry," he whispered into the darkness. He could feel the other man's hand resting on his naked thigh, and his cock was still lodged in Mulder's ass. It felt different when it was soft. Mulder thought about that for a moment. Different. It didn't hurt. Just felt…kind of warm. Not unpleasant. Mulder could have moved away while Laurence slept, but he wasn't sure he had the energy right now, even if he had wanted to. Strange how good it felt to be numb. Lifeless. He could see his own hands, tied together, and loosely attached to a chain at the head of the bed. If he concentrated very hard he thought he might be able to move his fingers, but he wasn't sure why he'd want to do that. His hands looked strange in the dark. He stared at them for a long time, trying to recognize them.  
  
"Larry," he whispered again. He heard a sound behind him, and his thigh was gently stroked.  
  
"What is it, darling?"  
  
"There are no windows in here, Larry," Mulder pointed out, puzzled. He tried to remember whether there were any X Files involving buildings with no windows, but his memories slipped away from him, like water sliding over rocks. That was strange. Usually his mind was so clear. He wondered why it wasn't now, but he was too warm, and comfortable to think too hard.  
  
"No, my darling. No windows," Laurence said softly, kissing the back of Mulder's neck.  
  
"Don't you like windows, Larry?" Mulder whispered. "Wouldn't you like to be able to see the outside world? To get some fresh air?"  
  
"No, my sweet. What can the outside world have that could possibly interest me?" Laurence replied, his hand still stroking Mulder's thigh, insistently, over and over again. "I have everything I need right here," Laurence added, pulling Mulder even closer.  
  
"Me? I'm enough?" Mulder asked, still puzzled.  
  
"Oh yes. More than enough," Laurence murmured.  
  
"But when I'm gone. When I'm...broken," Mulder whispered. "What will you do then...or am I broken already?" He asked, confused.  
  
"Very nearly, darling," Laurence whispered into his ear. "I think we very nearly broke you just now, didn't we?"  
  
"Why do you hate Walter so much?" Mulder asked. "I was wondering…what he thought…watching me earlier. Is it him you hate? Or is it me?"  
  
"I could never hate you, darling." Laurence squeezed him tight, reassuring him. "I do dislike your Walter Skinner though. He's treated you so badly. It's typical of his type. He's a bully. The bigger, stronger boys always get what they want. They're cruel. They don't care. They never care, my sweet. Remember that. They won't keep you safe, the way I keep you safe. It's a jungle outside, darling. You have to find a skill that makes you useful so the stronger boys don't hurt you, but you can never trust them. I despise them. But I love you, dear heart. I love you."  
  
"'Love you too, Larry," Mulder muttered, absently, staring at the windowless walls. "But when I'm gone you'll be alone again."  
  
"You can visit." Laurence patted his leg affectionately. He slid his hand up Mulder's thigh, and took Mulder's cock in his hand. Mulder felt it harden beneath the caress. "That's good. That's very good," Laurence purred in his ear. Mulder glowed with the praise. It really was much easier to just let go. His mind returned to the shadows on the walls. They were trying to tell him something, if only he knew what. He worried at his lip with his teeth, trying to think. His cock was sliding back and forth in Laurence's hand. Mulder lay still; he didn't have enough energy to move. It didn't feel like his body anyway. He wasn't interested in it. He was more interested in the shadows. He closed his eyes, and then opened them again, staring at the shadows with a puzzled frown. He was very tired. He should rest. His cock spewed come over the sheets, but Mulder barely noticed. The shadows had a shape. Like clouds. He could see faces, but they were hazy, nothing too defined. It was fascinating. It also scared him. He somehow knew that if he figured out the mystery then everything would change, and that he would hurt, and he didn't want to hurt. Right now he didn't hurt. Right now he just felt very tired.  
  
"Good boy," Laurence said. Mulder smiled, absently. He didn't know why he was being praised. He hadn't figured out the shadow thing after all. Still, it was nice. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.  
  
Mulder worked hard at being numb. It wasn't always easy. Sometimes the shadows closed in, taking shape and form, and screamed at him, demanding that he notice them, and it took all his strength to resist them. When that happened he had to stand very still, and concentrate on his hands, or Larry's mouth, or the dutymen's boots, until the shadows passed. He also worked hard at pleasing Larry. Larry was all he had after all, now that Skinner wouldn't be coming. He thought Larry was pleased with him although he couldn't be sure. Sometimes Larry whipped him anyway, even when he said Mulder had done nothing wrong, and that was confusing, although he was trying to accept it.  
  
"We have to get you ready for the Elite, my pet," Laurence told him fondly, as he stroked that whip over Mulder's back and buttocks, making Mulder cry out loud. The whip stung, but worse than that it had clarity, and Mulder didn't want clarity right now. He was happy in his haze. It felt good. "We only have a few more days, and you have to be ready. You're doing well, but we need you to be a little clearer. We have your compliance but at the expense of your smart mind, and wit, dear heart. When you're broken it'll be easier for us to restore that of course, but right now I'm working to a very tight timescale, so things have altered somewhat. I'm so sorry about that. It's cruel to keep you in this limbo when I should be tipping you slowly over the edge, but I just don't have time for that so I must concentrate on training instead of breaking. I hope you understand?"  
  
"Do I have to understand, Larry?" He asked with a yelp as the whip cut deep into his buttocks. "I'm not sure I can."  
  
"No," Laurence sighed, folding the whip away, and drawing Mulder into a hug. Mulder went willingly. These were the best times. When Larry wasn't angry with him it was nice. He received hugs, and kisses, and he was told that he was a very good boy. Laurence went over to his desk, and Mulder followed, always just half a step behind. When Laurence sat down, Mulder sat eagerly beside him, and then slid past the other man's legs, and opened his fly. He liked sucking Larry's cock, because that made Larry happy, and when Larry was happy Mulder was happy.  
  
"Shall I suck you, Larry?" he asked, looking up at the other man, his head almost bumping on the desk as he did so. "Or do you want to fuck me? Please fuck me, Larry." Those were the words he had learned by rote, and he was pretty pleased with himself for delivering them so well.  
  
"Not now, darling. Suck me, and then go and ask one of the dutymen to fuck you," Laurence replied, not even looking at Mulder, but returning instead to his paperwork, a frown creasing his forehead as he worked. Mulder went about his task eagerly, as he'd been taught. He was a fast learner. Larry had said so. He finished, cleaned up, then crawled out and went over to one of the dutymen by the door.  
  
"Please fuck me," he requested. He had been taught that as well. At first, it had been hard to say the words. He couldn't remember why, just that it had. He thought that probably the shadows had distracted him, making it difficult to concentrate. Larry had whipped him though and after that it had been much easier.  
  
The dutyman looked down on him, and Mulder smiled. Look cheerful, willing, and eager, Larry had told him. Mulder undid the dutyman's fly, and stroked his cock. "Please fuck me," he said again. He knew he should say something else, and tried to remember the words. "You're so big, and hard. I'd like to feel you inside me." Those were the words. He also remembered the way to say them, with all the right inflections, and a little gesture of his head, a knowing smile. The dutyman glanced over to Laurence questioningly, and Mulder thought he heard the other man sigh.  
  
"Oh, go ahead. It's convincing enough, it's just always the same," Laurence snapped. "He isn't thinking for himself. Still, I doubt the Elite will notice, and when we bring him back here I can finish breaking him. We can drag him back to reality and get his mind working again then."  
  
Mulder smiled, dreamily, and turned, on all fours, presenting his ass to the dutyman. If Larry wasn't here, he knew he wouldn't be able to do this. He was only doing it now because he wanted Larry to be nice to him. He wanted to make the other man proud of him, wanted to hear words of praise that would make him glow with warmth. Mulder felt hands on his butt, and then he was being entered. The shadows coalesced before his eyes, dancing and taunting him, and he closed his eyes, trying desperately to fight them, but they were still there, dancing on his eyelids now.  
  
"Stop it," he whimpered. "Go away. Leave me alone."  
  
The dutyman finished, and Mulder opened his eyes to see Laurence's shiny, black, impeccably polished shoes in front of him.  
  
"I'm sorry," he gasped. "I didn't mean...I wasn't talking to him, I was talking to them."  
  
"Go and get your whip," Laurence ordered, and Mulder obeyed, feeling sullen. That really hadn't been his fault. That had been the shadows, making him say things. He felt aggrieved. He picked up his whip and returned with it, handing it over to Laurence, while he glanced at the floor.  
  
"Oh dear," Laurence commented. Mulder looked up. Laurence was examining the whip.  
  
"What's up, Larry?"  
  
"It would appear that it's time to inaugurate a new whip for you. This one is worn through." Laurence showed Mulder the whip, and Mulder examined it, fascinated; it was worn. It was faded, and there was a deep crack where it had been doubled over. The edges were frayed, and the thin leather didn't look as if it would hold together for much longer. Laurence went to a cupboard, and drew out a new whip, covered in cellophane. He ripped the covering off the whip, and swung the new implement through the air a couple of times, before looking at Mulder. "Go and get into position," he ordered. Mulder went over to the wall, still feeling sullen. The shadows were dancing on the wall like flames, and he stopped, scared, and glanced back over his shoulder. "Mulder." Laurence's tone was firm. "I told you to get into position."  
  
Mulder swallowed hard, glanced at the shadows, and then back at Laurence. "Can't," he whispered. "They're there."  
  
"Who?" Laurence was frowning, and Mulder felt a deep anxiety in his stomach. He knew he didn't want to make Larry angry, but he couldn't help it. He was torn between the shadows, and Laurence.  
  
"The shadows, sir," Mulder whispered, pointing. Laurence walked towards him, and he started to shake. Laurence looked him in the eye, his gaze searching.  
  
"You know sometimes, little fox, I wonder whether this is an act. Whether you're hatching some little deed of cunning. Is it an act, Mulder?"  
  
"No, sir," he whispered.  
  
The shadows closed in around his shoulders, whispering to him. He tried to ignore them but it was hard. He watched Larry's mouth open and close but he couldn't hear what the man was saying, then he felt his shoulder being roughly turned and he was pushed up against the wall. He held position, screaming before the whip even hit his body. The shadows were eating him alive. With the pain came clarity. With the pain came memory. He fought against both. Fought to stay safe in his hazy sanctuary of numbness.  
  
The whipping came to an end, and he sank down on his knees, his fingers scrabbling against the wall, pushing back the shadows. As the pain receded he knew he'd be able to fight them more easily. He could hear someone screaming, and his fingers were gouging holes in the plaster on the walls as he fought with the shadow creatures that were trying to take him back into the darkness where they lived. He couldn't live in the dark. He couldn't go back. There was nobody there for him now. Everybody had gone. At least here, in the haze, he had Larry. Larry would take care of him. He felt strong arms around his shoulders, and turned, desperate for comfort, holding onto Laurence for dear life, still screaming.  
  
"It's all right, darling boy," Laurence soothed. "You're fine. You're all right. Hush. I'm here. Larry's here."  
  
Mulder smiled, and looked into ice-cold, violet eyes. "Larry. Our secret." He loved that Larry had just called himself by the name that Mulder had given him. It was something special between them. He loved that.  
  
"That's right, dear heart. Our secret. Sit down."  
  
He was pushed onto the bed, and he sat, obediently, not moving. He didn't have the energy for unnecessary movement these days. The slightest thing made him tired. He slept a lot - whenever Larry allowed. Sometimes he fell asleep when he wasn't supposed to; when Larry was feeding him, or he was sitting by the other man's chair. He knew that annoyed Larry, but he couldn't help it.  
  
"I'm taking you on a little journey tomorrow," Laurence told him, sitting on the bed beside him and petting his hair. Mulder leaned into the caress, closing his eyes. The shadows flickered and died, but he knew they'd be back. They always came back.  
  
"A journey?" Mulder repeated blankly.  
  
"Yes, dear heart." Mulder wasn't sure whether it was his imagination but those fingers stroking him seemed to be shaking.  
  
"Not back downstairs?" Mulder shivered, opening his eyes to look at Larry. Something bad had happened to him downstairs, and he knew he didn't want to go back there.  
  
Laurence laughed. "No, darling. Somewhere different. It will mean going outside." Laurence's fingers tightened in his hair, hurting him.  
  
"Outside?" Mulder worried his lip with his teeth. What was outside? He didn't even know what time of year it was now, or where he and Larry lived. Mulder shivered. Maybe the shadows lived outside. They crept in through cracks under the door when nobody was looking. He wouldn't be safe if they went outside. "I don't want to go, Larry," he whispered, resting his head on Laurence's shoulder.  
  
"Neither do I, dear heart. Neither do I." Laurence sounded so sad. The other man threaded his hands together around Mulder's torso, and hugged him to his chest. Mulder could hear Laurence's heart beating and it was so fast it sounded like a bomb, ticking down the seconds before it exploded.  
  
"Then we don't have to go," Mulder said simply, shrugging. "If you don't want to go, Larry, then we don't have to."  
  
"Unfortunately it isn't that simple." Laurence squeezed Mulder tight. "I'm taking you somewhere tomorrow and I need you to be on your best behavior. I need you to look to me for your cues at all times, and to do exactly as I've always taught you. You see, my dear…" Laurence trailed his fingertips over Mulder's naked body. "There are some men who want to meet you."  
  
"Men?" Mulder looked up, and then gasped in surprise. The shadows were now dancing in Laurence's eyes, making flickering shapes in the other man's irises. Mulder tried to look without seeing but it wasn't easy.  
  
"Yes, dearest. They want to admire your beautiful body. You are looking particularly beautiful. They'll want to play with you, to pet you, stroke you, and come in your mouth and ass. Some of them might want to beat you. Do you understand?" The shadows were twirling and dancing, beckoning to him. Mulder closed his eyes.  
"I asked if you understood," Laurence said, in a hard tone. "You will be the obedient boy I've trained you to be. You'll do as they ask, and you'll try your best to be pleasing, even if they want to hurt you. Are you listening to me?"  
  
"Yes, Larry." Mulder nodded without opening his eyes.  
  
"Good boy." Laurence stroked him again, and he relaxed.  
  
"I'll do it if you're there," Mulder whispered, trying not to think about those faceless men, touching him, fucking him, coming in his mouth, hurting him. If Larry was there he'd do it just to please the other man, but otherwise he wouldn't.  
  
"Yes. I know that." Laurence's tone was different. He sounded sad and resigned. "I wish that wasn't necessary," he murmured, stroking Mulder's hair. "I really do. I wish I could send you there alone."  
  
"Don't do that." Mulder hung onto the other man, alarmed.  
  
"I won't. There wouldn't be any point. You'd go berserk." Laurence shook his head.  
  
"If you don't want to go, and I don't want to go, then let's just not go," Mulder said again. It seemed very simple to him.  
  
"We don't have that option," Laurence snapped. Then his tone became gentler. "You remember I told you about the big boys, the bullies who want everything their own way?" Mulder nodded. "Well, these are the bullies, my pet. We have to please them. Remember that you have to have a skill, something to stop them from hurting you. My skill is to bring you to them, to show them how good and obedient you've become. Your skill is to please them, with your pretty lips, and willing ass."  
  
Mulder nodded. "All right, Larry," he whispered. "I'll do that."  
  
"Good boy. If you do well, then I'll reward you when we get home. If you do badly, then I'll whip you to within an inch of your life, and send you back downstairs for a week."  
  
"You won't need to do that, Larry," Mulder whispered. "I promise."  
  
Mulder suddenly felt very tired again. He flopped back on the bed, and closed his eyes. The shadows danced on his eyelids once more, keeping him from sleep. You're going outside, they whispered. This could be your chance to escape. Escape…escape…escape. The word echoed around inside his mind, and he moaned, and thrashed his head from side to side. There's no point, he replied, silently. There's nowhere to run to. Nobody to run to. No point. No point. No point.  
  
Laurence woke him the next day, gave him his usual morning enema, then filled the Jacuzzi for them both to bathe. Afterwards he sat on the edge of the bath, and Mulder bent his head to suck the other man, as he usually did, but this time, for the first time, there was no response, no matter how hard he tried. Laurence seemed annoyed, and slapped Mulder away.  
  
"Not today. We don't have time today," he snapped, but Mulder didn't think that was the reason. Larry was tense. His shoulders were stiff, and he was even paler than he usually was. He looked like death. Mulder was shaved by the dutyman, and his hair was cut, styled and dried, and then Laurence made him bend over the end of the bed. Laurence inserted his lubed fingers into Mulder's ass, stretching him. He took his time, reapplying the lube and returning his fingers to Mulder's anus until it seemed to Mulder as if he had a whole tube of cold lubricant inside him.  
  
"This is to loosen you, dear heart," Laurence murmured as he worked. "Many men will wish to enter inside this lovely hole today, so we must prepare you for your big performance, hmm?" Mulder thought the shadows might have said something, but all he heard were the ssh-ssh of whispers that never quite came into focus.  
  
Afterwards, when he was allowed to stand, Mulder looked at himself in the mirror, and grinned. He looked okay. He had a few welt marks on his back, but nothing much. He looked good. Better than when you last looked in this mirror, the shadows said, but he took no notice. He didn't remember that time. Your eyes are made of shadows, like us, they whispered. You don't look good; you look pale, thin, haunted. He ignored them.  
  
Laurence fastened his cuffs together behind his back, and then buckled his belt around his waist. He turned Mulder around and attached a small, bulging leather wallet to the belt.  
  
"Condoms, my dear," he explained. "There's no need to offer them. The Elite can take them from the belt if they wish to use one. Some of them are a little fastidious about such matters, and your ass will be receiving a good many visitors today, after all." Laurence patted his butt, as if to illustrate the point. Then he attached a lead to the front of Mulder's belt, and pulled him towards the door. Mulder was blindfolded, and ushered out into the hallway but this time they went in a different direction. Mulder had never been this way before but he went with Larry willingly. He was used to accompanying Larry while wearing his blindfold now, and he didn't even falter as he was taken down the unfamiliar route. He was led down some stairs, to a cold, drafty room, with a concrete floor that he assumed was a parking garage. He heard a door open, and found himself being pushed into a car. He sat on unfamiliar leather upholstery that stuck to his naked flesh. A moment later he heard someone else get in beside him, and he was pulled over so that he was lying on a lap he knew all too well. He nuzzled into Laurence's shirt, reassured by the other man's familiar presence.  
  
"There. Just relax. You'll be fine," Laurence said, but Mulder wasn't the one trembling. "The windows are made of tinted glass," Laurence whispered to him. "Nobody can see in. They should make them so that nobody can see out as well," he murmured, under his breath. Mulder frowned. The shadows were screaming at him from beneath the blindfold. He ignored them. The engine started, and Laurence's fingers dug deep into Mulder's flesh. Mulder lay quite still, biting back a cry of pain.  
  
The car started to move, a slow, rolling movement. Mulder closed his eyes beneath the blindfold, and allowed the motion to soothe him. He didn't want to think about what would happen. He wanted to drift away in the haze of numbness, where he was safe. Larry was here. He would be okay. Larry would take care of him. Larry only hurt him when he had to, and he did deserve it - most of the time anyway. Laurence's fingers were digging in even harder now. Mulder felt the other man's clammy hands on his torso. Larry was sweating. Mulder couldn't remember ever having seen the other man sweat. Usually he was so cold blooded, like a lizard. His flesh was always dry, and cool to the touch, never clammy like this.  
  
"You okay, Larry?" He asked, turning his face to nuzzle Laurence's shirt again.  
  
"I'm fine." The slightly acrid scent of Laurence's body belied his words, which had been delivered from out of what sounded like a clenched jaw.  
  
"You sure?" Mulder nuzzled the other man reassuringly. "I'll do okay today. I promise. I'll do what you tell me."  
  
"Be quiet." Laurence's tone was hard, and yet curiously shaky. Mulder felt him retch. He didn't say anything because Larry had told him to be quiet. He wondered what streets were whizzing by outside, wondered, idly, what city they were in, and whether there were people walking by, just a few feet away, unaware that he was locked inside. The shadows told him he might be able to kick the door open, and run for his life, but he knew they were just trying to get him into trouble. Apart from anything else, he knew the door was locked, and there was no handle on the inside. His tied hands had brushed the smooth doorframe as he got in. He told the shadows that and they shut up.  
  
He wasn't sure how long the journey lasted, but he grew increasingly alarmed by Laurence's behavior as it continued. The other man was shaking like a leaf, and Mulder felt a few wet droplets fall on his face. Whether it was sweat, or tears, he didn't know. Still he didn't speak. Larry didn't seem to be in a mood to talk. Finally they arrived. Mulder wasn't sure how long the journey had taken. Not long, he thought. Maybe fifteen minutes? He wasn't sure he was a very good judge of time any more, but not long, all the same. Not too long. Long enough for Larry maybe - the other man was now crooning something, rocking back and forth as he did so, and his fingers were buried so far into Mulder's flesh that he knew he'd have marks for a couple of days.  
  
"It's all right, we're here now. It's okay. We're safe now. We're fine…don't worry, my pet, you can stop worrying," Laurence said, as the car door opened. Mulder wasn't sure if the other man was talking to him or not. He hadn't been worried. He had liked the journey. It could have lasted forever as far as he was concerned because he never wanted to arrive here, wherever here was. He knew that here would hurt, and he didn't want to be here. What if the shadows came back when he was asked to suck someone, or take their cock into his ass? What would he do? He hoped he was strong enough to fight them, but he was so tired.  
  
He was helped out of the car, and into an elevator. He could feel the whoosh as they went up, and his stomach lurched, unprepared for the motion. Then he was being helped out at the other end, and ushered along a carpeted hallway. He started to shiver, and dragged his steps. Laurence put an arm around his shoulders.  
  
"Keep going, dear heart. This is your finest moment. All you have to do is perform well for Larry. Hmm? Do your best for your Larry and make him proud of you."  
  
Mulder nodded, trying to hold on to that thought. He was taken into a room, and the door was shut behind him. The conversation in the room came to an abrupt halt, and he flushed in the silence. He could feel the warmth of a fire on the back of his thighs, and then his blindfold was removed. He blinked in the light. He was in a large room. The air was hazy with smoke.  
  
There was one large oak table in front of some bookcases at the far end, and dozens of armchairs, many of them occupied. Mulder swallowed hard, as he faced down an audience of men, all of them gazing at him with hard, hungry, curious eyes.  
  
"So, Agent Mulder has been brought to us at last," one of them said. He was a heavyset man, with a large, jowly face, and a stiff neck. He looked at Mulder like a snake viewing prey, his eyes dull, but vicious. "How is the matter proceeding?" He addressed himself to Laurence. Mulder stayed perfectly still, staring into space. Flames were leaping in the grate, and the shadows laughed at him as they rose up into the chimney, mocking him. Look at him standing in front of his enemies, naked, humiliated, tamed. Nothing but a fuck toy. An orifice. Something to be used and discarded. A body to be entered and plundered.  
  
"Very well, as you can see," Laurence replied, addressing the whole room. "He isn't ready to be visited at the salon yet, but give me another few weeks and he will. Then we can think about returning him to his life."  
  
"You're sure that will be safe?" One of the men asked. "Can he be trusted to serve us after he's been returned to his old life?"  
  
"When he's broken then yes," Laurence replied.  
  
"He looks fairly tame now," someone said, with a laugh.  
  
"He's been well trained, but he isn't ready for release yet." Mulder detected a faint sigh of weariness in Laurence's voice. He sensed that the other man hated having to deal with people who didn't understand what he was doing, or the skill involved. He sounded like a proud craftsman addressing philistines.  
  
Someone got up, and walked over to him. Two eager, rough hands reached out and examined him. Mulder blinked, and tried to stand still. Laurence's violet eyes were burning into him, keeping him in place. The impertinent hands roamed freely over his body, fondling, squeezing, and slapping. He was turned around, this way and that, and displayed to the room.  
  
"Butt out, spread your legs," the man ordered, smacking the inside of his thighs. Mulder obeyed quickly, without even thinking. He was good at this. Larry had trained him to be good at this. His butt was slapped heartily and there was a little ripple of laughter in the room. "Turn around again. Eyes down. Good…" The man ran a hand over his chest, and then, without warning, took hold of one of his nipples and squeezed down hard. Mulder gasped, his eyes watering, but other than that he didn't react. The man handling him looked him in the eye, trying to gauge his response, but Mulder's gaze was hazy, and unchallenging. The pressure on his nipple increased, and he bit down on his lip, but remained in position. Finally, he was released. "Hmm, I'm impressed," the man examining him said. "I never thought anybody could tame this particular pain in the ass. It's going to make our plans so much easier to carry out, knowing we have another man on the inside. Especially Agent Mulder. Nobody would ever suspect him."  
  
"I agree. It's all worked out perfectly," the jowly man commented. He turned to Laurence. "I'd like to see a demonstration though," he said. "I'll be interested to see just how far his obedience goes."  
  
"By all means." Laurence walked over to Mulder, and unlocked his cuffs. "He's yours for the afternoon, gentlemen. I know you have business to discuss. Use him as you would any of the other trainees. He'll be very unobtrusive in his work. Kneel down, darling, and wait to be summoned," Laurence said.  
  
Mulder did as he'd been told. A small whimper escaped from the back of his throat as he watched Larry move away, to go and sit in an armchair. He was all on his own now, in front of these men, naked, on display, with nobody standing beside him. He dropped his head, trying to block out the sight of those men gazing at him.  
  
"Agent Mulder." He lifted his head again. The jowly man was staring at him intently. "Come here," the man said, beckoning with a crooked finger. Mulder got up, his throat dry, and went to kneel between the other man's open legs.  
  
"Would you like me to suck you, sir?" he asked. "Or would you like to fuck my ass?"  
  
The man made no reply. He merely gestured to his groin, and sat back expectantly. Mulder reached out with shaking fingers, and opened the other man's fly, searching for his cock. The man smelled strange, different. His cock was heavy and large, and had a faint aroma of urine. Mulder looked over to Laurence, a lump of revulsion rising in the back of his throat. Laurence nodded at him, and Mulder closed his eyes to fight back the shadows. He bent his head, opened his mouth, and started to perform the task he had learned. Run! The shadows urged. Get up and run for the door! Mulder ignored the voices. He knew there was no point. The man he was sucking picked up his newspaper and began to read as if Mulder wasn't even there. A faint sigh went around the room, and then conversations started up again; one, and then two, and then the whole place was a buzz of conversation and he was just a part of the scenery. He was nothing special, nothing important; just another one of Laurence's recruits. Salty come trickled down his throat, so he finished up, and tucked the jowly man's cock back in his pants, then zipped them up again, as he'd been taught.  
  
"Thank you, sir," he murmured.  
  
The jowly man ignored him. Mulder glanced at Larry for reassurance, and maybe some praise, and Laurence nodded at him, and gave him a small, tight smile. Mulder knelt, helpless, wondering what to do next but he didn't have to wait long. The snapping of fingers alerted him. A man stood up, and Mulder went to him. The man grinned, and massaged Mulder's ass with searching fingers, kneading it.  
  
"Go and bend over the table," he ordered. Mulder went. The wood was cool and hard beneath his naked stomach. "He's got a nice ass," the man said, and Mulder felt a hand stroke his butt appreciatively. "I'd like to take my belt to it, Laurence. Would that be all right? Raise a little color on it!"  
  
"Certainly, Richard. That would be fine. Mulder loves to be beaten. Don't you, Mulder?" Laurence asked.  
  
"Yes, sir," Mulder agreed, holding onto the table with sweaty hands. He heard a belt sliding through pant loops, and then it slapped against his buttocks, making him jump. The pain made the shadows dance behind his eyes, and it was harder to ignore them when they danced. He tried to remember to breathe as each hard stroke sent his stomach sliding further across that smooth, cold wood. He hung on, fighting the pain, and fighting the shadows. He could hear someone grunting, and thought at first that it was the man beating him, but then realized it was him. Six, seven, eight hard strokes with the belt, and then he felt his legs being kicked apart, and he was entered without warning. He bit back his shout, and concentrated on ignoring the shadows. They were clamoring for his attention now but he could ignore them. This would be over soon, and he'd go home with Larry in the car, back to the bedroom, and the Jacuzzi. Soon, soon, soon. He felt Richard climax inside him, and then he withdrew. Mulder stood up, shakily.  
  
"Very good," Richard said appreciatively. "I don't usually rate male ass, but your fame has gone before you, Mulder." He pinched Mulder's cheek, grinning. "I couldn't pass up the opportunity to have a piece of you. I might even visit you in the salon."  
  
"Thank you, sir," Mulder whispered.  
  
The room had returned to normal. Nobody was even looking at him. He hoped for some respite, but as soon as Richard allowed him to go, a slap on his ass showed him that somebody else wanted his services. He knelt, and sucked, and presented his ass to anyone who asked. The shadows were almost silent now. The haze surrounded him like a fog, protecting him, hiding him from sight. This wasn't him. He wasn't even sure who he was any more, just that it was more comfortable not knowing. Every now and again he glanced over to see Larry talking, or sipping tea. Each time, Larry nodded at him, reassuring him, and he returned to his task with renewed vigor. He didn't want to upset Larry. He wanted to earn his praise. He thought he was doing well. He bent his head to another cock. The door opened, and closed, but people had been coming and going all afternoon, so Mulder took no notice. He heard a faint, muffled exclamation and ignored it. He finished up, and sat back on his heels, waiting for his next assignment. Cold leather brushed against his cheek.  
  
"Come here," a hard voice told him. A plastic hand came to rest on his shoulder, urging him to stand, and then it propelled him across the room, to an armchair in a dimly lit corner, facing away from the other chairs, towards a window. Mulder knelt, and began to open the occupant's faded denim jeans, reached inside for the man's cock, his mind still far away.  
  
"Would you like me to suck you, sir, or do you want to fuck my ass?" He asked, not looking up.  
  
"Mulder, for Christ's sake. It's me." He felt two hands on the side of his face, one real, and one false, making him look up. Green eyes glowed at him, forcing their way through the haze, and the shadows ran at him, surrounding him with violent, hissing whispers, making it almost impossible to ignore them. "Me, you stupid, sorry son of a bitch," the voice hissed. "Me." The real hand slapped him across the face. "Wake up, Mulder. Christ, what have they done to you?"  
  
Mulder fought to remain in the haze, fought with all his might to defeat the darkness of the shadows as they closed in on him. He didn't want to know who this man was. Larry had said the men might want to hurt him, so he ignored the repeated slaps on his jaw, and bent his head towards the man's groin, still intent on sucking the man's cock, as he had been taught to do. A hand stopped him, grabbed his chin, and forced him to look up. He stared blankly at dark hair, dark as the shadows in his mind. They were screaming at him now - so loudly that he couldn't ignore them. He licked his lips, and looked over the man's shoulder, trying desperately to find Laurence. Where was he? He needed to look at Larry's mouth, to concentrate very closely on the other man's lips, and that way he might be able to fight the shadows. He saw Laurence standing by the fire, holding onto the mantle with his hand clenched so tight that the knuckles were white. He turned, glanced at Mulder, and their eyes met briefly - but then Laurence saw the window behind Mulder, and he blanched, and turned away again, swaying as he took hesitant steps towards an armchair. He sank gratefully into it, and didn't look back. Mulder stared at the back of Laurence's head, feeling lost, and forlorn. How could he fight the shadows if Larry didn’t help him?  
  
"Mulder!" The man in front of him slapped him again, drawing his attention back to his work. He could do this. He could do this even without Larry's help, if he just concentrated very, very hard. The man's fingers were digging into his jaw, stopping him from doing his job though. Laurence hadn't prepared him for this, and he didn't know what to do. The shadows seemed to sense his confusion. They were so close now that they were engulfing him, eating him up with their darkness. The man in front of him leaned forward until his nose was almost touching Mulder's, those green eyes glowing urgently.  
  
"Mulder, it's me, Krycek," he said very slowly, as if talking to an idiot. The shadows reached up and swallowed him in one gulp. They darkened the recesses of his mind, and then exploded in a flash of light. He gasped as pain flooded into every single cell of his body, forcing him back into the clarity he had tried so hard to evade. He hurt. He hurt from the whip, and the sex, and the degradation and humiliation, and most of all he hurt from the loss, and the terrible, agonizing loneliness. Memories that had danced just out of reach came back into focus with hideous lucidity, and the lethargy that had claimed him for days dissipated in a flash of raw, intense hatred.  
  
"Krycek," he said, his hand going out automatically, reaching for his old enemy's throat, wanting to squeeze the life out of him. Krycek deflected him easily, grabbed his hair, and held him still. His strong thighs circled Mulder's naked body, trapping him. He bent forward, and spoke directly into Mulder's ear in a low whisper.  
  
"Listen, you stupid bastard, I want to help. I mean it," he hissed again, urgently, as Mulder struggled against him. "Just shut up and listen to me. Christ, I had no idea they'd done this. I wondered what that crazy motherfucker Laurence was doing here. I can't believe they did this to you."  
  
Mulder looked at his old enemy, his brain registering disbelief, but he saw, without any doubt, that Krycek was telling the truth.  
  
"Listen to me, Mulder. I know you're in there." Krycek rapped his knuckles against Mulder's forehead. "He hasn't broken you yet or he wouldn't have needed to come here with you. It had to be something fucking important to drag that psychotic old monster out of his lair." Mulder's eyes widened, and Krycek shook his head. "He's got some kind of phobia, Mulder. I haven't seen him step foot outside his salon since I left there myself. Now, if he hasn't totally fucked with your mind then there's still a chance for you. Do you hear me?"  
  
Mulder nodded. "I'm here," he whispered. "I'm listening."  
  
"Good." Krycek let go of his hair, and Mulder sank down, resting his arms on the other man's knees. Krycek glanced around the room, clearly checking to see if they were being watched, and Mulder trembled. What if they'd been seen? What if Laurence was watching them? "Suck me," Krycek said, opening his fly. Mulder looked at him in mute rebellion. "For fuck's sake!" Krycek hissed. "Someone will get suspicious. You've sucked just about every other dick in this room and mine isn't any different. Now suck me off while I think of a plan to get you out of this."  
  
"Why?" Mulder asked, as he leaned forward, every instinct rebelling.  
  
"Why am I helping you? Because nobody deserves this and because this might be the only chance I ever have of getting back at that fucking psycho Laurence."  
  
"He said he broke you," Mulder murmured, his nerveless fingers finding Krycek's cock. It was, at least, a younger penis than he'd so far sucked in this room, nestled in its bed of wiry, dark curls.  
  
"That's what he thinks. He sure as hell twisted me some, but he never fucking broke me all the way down like he did some of the others. You can't believe all his shit, Mulder. I know it's hard to resist, but he talks such fucking crap half the time. Remember that - it'll help you. He says stuff, twists things, they sound real and you hurt too much to see that he's just fucking with your mind. You have to learn how to agree with him, how to pretend to accept everything he says while inside you just keep telling yourself that he's a crazy, pathetic old monster. You have to keep some small part of yourself that he can't touch, that he can never get close to, because if you don't then he has you, and then you'll never escape. Christ, he taught you well." Krycek's hand came down on Mulder's hair, as his cock sprang into life in Mulder's mouth. "I still can't believe it though," Krycek murmured. "That they'd do this...they must really want you working for them. Or else..." Mulder glanced up, his mouth still sliding over Krycek's cock. "Nothing." Krycek shrugged, his green eyes dark with some kind of bitter knowledge. Mulder rocked back.  
  
"If you're thinking about my father then you're probably right," he murmured. Krycek's eyes widened, and then he nodded.  
  
"You know," he whispered hoarsely, and his fingers stroked Mulder's hair gently, almost absently. "You poor bastard, you know. I'm sorry. All right, we don't have much time." He glanced around the room again. "The only way I can get access to you back at the salon is in the Recreation Room."  
  
All the color drained from Mulder's face, and he shook his head, mutely. "I'm not going back there," he said in a hoarse whisper. While he had been lost in that numb haze he had been able to block out all memory of what had happened to him there, but now that he had his memories back, and the clarity of his mind, as well as his wits, he was terrified and panic stricken by the thought of returning to that room. Krycek took hold of his head, and thrust it back down to his groin.  
  
"You have to. I can't get down to the Delivery Room where he'll be keeping you. It's too well guarded, but every member of the Syndicate is allowed to use the Recreation Room. Laurence has guards outside the Recreation Room but I'll find some way of taking care of them. I'll visit every night for as long as it takes and see if you're there. If you are, then I'll do my best to get you out. But you have to do something to make Laurence mad. You have to get him to send you there."  
  
"No," Mulder said, returning to his task. Krycek pumped into his mouth, back and forth, in a slow, steady rhythm. He wasn't going back to that room on the advice of his bitter enemy.  
  
"Then I can't fucking help you." Krycek's voice was hoarse and gruff. He came in Mulder's mouth, and Mulder swallowed down the retch that assaulted him. He thought of all the men in this room who'd had a piece of him, and he wanted to be sick. Now he longed to be back in that haze, lost in that protective fog, but it had gone. The shadows of his own mind had driven it away.  
  
"Help me escape now," he whispered. "Help me run."  
  
"You're in the fucking Syndicate headquarters. There is no way I can get you out of here," Krycek snapped. "Now do as I fucking say, or stay in that place and let Laurence fucking break you in two. I don't care."  
  
Mulder sank back on his heels, closed his eyes, and then, finally, opened them again, with a nod.  
  
"Good. Now fuck off and suck someone else before they notice."  
  
Krycek shoved him and he fell backwards. When he turned around, he found himself looking at a pair of familiar, shiny black shoes. He started to tremble, and looked up, in alarm. Laurence's violet eyes were gazing down at him, piercing him with their stare. He felt as if he had Krycek's escape plan written on his forehead.  
  
"Alex," Laurence said smoothly. Mulder watched as Krycek went very still, his eyes glowing darkly inside his suddenly very pale face.  
  
"Laurence. How are you?" The two men shook hands, but Mulder noticed that Krycek's fingers trembled slightly as they were held limply in Laurence's thin, languid hand.  
  
"I'm well, dear boy. How sweet of you to ask. I see you're enjoying our newest recruit."  
  
"Yeah, that's a wet dream come true. Fox Mulder on his knees servicing me." Krycek grinned.  
  
"I'm so glad you enjoyed it. We don't see you very often at the salon," Laurence said, one hand reaching down to pet Mulder's hair affectionately. "I know Charles keeps you very busy, not least with the personal services he requires of you." Laurence gave a knowing smirk, and Mulder glanced up sharply at Krycek, who swallowed hard, and then shrugged. "Maybe you're receiving all that you need from that quarter, hmm?" Laurence raised an eyebrow, and, from his vantage point at their feet, Mulder saw Krycek's good hand curl up into a tight fist. "Now, you mustn't monopolize our new recruit. There's somebody over here who wants to play with him." With one final nod to Krycek, Laurence pulled Mulder to his feet, and ushered him over to a man sitting in an armchair by the fire. "He wants you to ride him, my pet," Laurence said, his fingers digging into Mulder's arm as he hauled him over. Mulder swallowed hard, and tried to remember to breathe. He wasn't sure he could do this without the protective haze. He couldn't do this clear headed, and full of hope for escape. He couldn't.  
  
The man in the armchair had opened his pants, and was caressing his hard cock, ready and waiting for him. Laurence positioned Mulder over the man, and pushed him down, opening Mulder's buttocks and forcing him to ride the man's cock. Mulder closed his eyes as he was impaled on the hard flesh, tried not to think as he rose and sank, up and down, Laurence's hand gripping the back of his neck, stroking him there gently, making the fine hairs on the skin stand up on end. Laurence spoke to him softly the whole time, urging him on and reminding him of the consequences of failure. The client was fawning over him, sucking his nipples, biting his flesh with little nips, his fingernails clawing Mulder's ass. Mulder considered resisting. Maybe if he fucked up now it would be enough to get him sent to the Recreation Room. Mulder wanted to do it, but his abused body wouldn't respond to his commands. Laurence's fingers, digging into his neck, inhibited him. He couldn't do it. He just couldn't. Not with Laurence there, standing over him. He had tried fighting Laurence ever since his abduction but nothing he did had worked. He had been beaten back at every turn. Each small triumph had been paid for in blood, sweat and tears - all his own. He needed to find the energy and strength to regroup. Krycek had given him hope...now he just had to use that hope to make one final move, one final, desperate attempt to escape. Not now though. He needed to think about the best way of doing this. If he made the wrong move he might just end up being beaten half to death rather than taken to the Recreation Room. Exhausted, as much by his own failure as the events of the day, he slumped down as his 'client' climaxed inside him. Laurence helped him up, and he was pushed over to the fireplace and onto his knees again. He sank there, his head bowed, the taste of semen in his mouth, utterly despondent.  
  
When he looked up, he realized that the armchair closest to him had an occupant; an occupant who was gazing at him, transfixed; a silent occupant, who blew out spirals of smoke at regular intervals. He stared into a pair of hazel eyes, familiar and yet unfamiliar. He had seen those eyes in his own mirror. The man, his father, was staring down at him, with a pained expression on his face. Had his father been here all along? Had he witnessed what his son had been brought to? Had he taken pleasure in it? Mulder found an inner core of sheer desolation that broke through his fear, shame, and exhaustion.  
  
"Is this what you wanted?" Mulder whispered to the man gazing at him with that look of such profound complexity. "Is this what you wanted for me when I was born - Dad?" His father's shock at being recognized, and called by a name he had merely the most basic biological right to, registered only in a tremor in his index finger, which sent a cloud of cigarette ash dropping to the floor  
  
"It isn't a question of what I want," his father said, in a slow voice, husky with repressed emotion. "We all have to make sacrifices."  
  
"I don't see you making any sacrifices, Dad," Mulder said. Their voices were low, choked with emotion, but the tension in the air was so strong it was almost tangible. Laurence broke off his conversation with the man who Mulder had just ridden, and looked around to see what his newest recruit was doing. The men closest stopped talking.  
  
"Of course I did. I lost one son. I didn't want to lose the other. I had no choice." His father leaned forward. "You don't understand, Fox. There's so much at stake and I want you to have the inheritance I've worked so hard to carve out for you. I don't want what happened to Jeffrey to happen to you."  
  
Jeffrey. His half-brother. A man he had disliked intensely, and now found he was related to by blood.  
  
"What did happen to Jeffrey?" Mulder asked hoarsely, remembering the scene that had greeted him in his own office; his brother's dead body slumped in front of his desk, his brother's blood seeping from a bullet wound in his chest. "Was he expendable because you knew you had another son? A son you rated more highly, a son you wanted to inherit everything. Was it you? Did you have him killed because he failed you?" Mulder felt a wave of sheer horror as he saw a dull flash of acknowledgement in his father's eyes. He had never realized…never believed. "Oh god. You did kill him. It was you," he whispered. The room had gone still, silent. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Alex Krycek walking towards them with an urgent stride, coming to his boss's defense like a good little foot soldier.  
  
"You bastard. You killed him because he wasn't good enough to take over from you? And you've done this to me because I'm not good enough?" Mulder raged, lurching forward, his one aim to crush his father's smug face into oblivion and wipe any trace of the other man's features from his mind.  
  
"No, I'm doing this to you because you are," his father told him, stopping him in his tracks. "I wouldn't waste my time on you if I didn't think so, Fox. I recognize myself in you. You have my determination to succeed whatever the odds, my single-minded vision, my belief in your cause, and even, although you'd deny it, a streak of my cold, hard ruthlessness running through your veins. You have my pride, even my arrogance." He smiled, and took a deep inhalation of his cigarette. "You are your father's son, Fox, whether you like it or not. I made a big mistake not bringing you up myself. I allowed you to be corrupted in your childhood. Now I want to undo the harm that was done then."  
  
Mulder couldn't stop himself. His father was holding up a twisted, distorted mirror to his own features for Mulder knew that his genes had given him every single one of the flaws and qualities that the other man had listed. He was pounding into his father with his fists before anybody could stop him. He felt Krycek's arms around him, pulling at him, heard the other man shouting at him to stop, but he plowed on regardless, desperate to sink his fists into his father's flesh, to inflict on him some measure of the pain and suffering that he had endured. Even weak and tired as he was, it took four men to drag him off, and all the time he looked into those hazel eyes that mirrored his own, and wanted to kill this man not for what he had done to him, but for showing him what he would be if he just gave in.  
  
Finally he was wrestled to the floor. He could hear Laurence talking to him, trying to exert control over him again. His father looked ruffled, and faintly ill, but he regained his composure, adjusted his torn shirt, and gazed down on his son where he lay naked, bound and defeated at his feet. Mulder thought he saw just the smallest flash of victory in his father's eyes.  
  
"You'll thank me for this, one day. I don't think you understand that I'm offering you the whole world; we're talking about an entire planet, Fox. You always were the bright one, the one with the most potential. I watched over you for years, even when it would have been wiser to have you killed. I didn't want to do that. I knew that if you would only come around to our way of thinking then you would be the best, most brilliant leader we could ever have. You could still be that. It's a gift I'm offering to you…son."  
  
Mulder stared at the other man wordlessly, unable to believe what he was hearing. This wasn't, as Laurence had suggested, his father abandoning him to the most appalling pain and humiliation because he didn't care. No, this whole thing had been his father's twisted idea of ensuring that his last surviving son came into the inheritance he so badly wanted him to have. The room had gone silent. Nobody spoke, or moved, except Alex Krycek who shuffled close to Mulder's father and handed him his handkerchief, so that the older man could dab the blood from his split lip. Mulder saw the pity in Krycek's deep green eyes as he gazed impassively down on him.  
  
"I just want you to know," Mulder said softly, trying to find words that would wound sufficiently, because words were the only weapon he had left, "that for all his failings Bill Mulder was more my father than you'll ever be. I would rather have what he called love than your twisted parody of the word any day."  
  
He saw Alex wince, and shake his head imperceptibly, warning him not to go any further, and knew that he was straying onto dangerous ground, but this wasn't about getting himself sent to the Recreation Room; he didn't care about that right now. This was about something old, deep, and unsettled between him and his father. He couldn't stop himself if he tried. There was one last thing he could do. As Laurence picked him up, and began hauling him out of the room, he spat in his father's face. He would retain that final image of his father forever, spittle running down his chin. It wasn't much, but it gave him back some of the dignity and power that he had lost since this nightmare had begun.  
  
"You know I'm speaking the truth." His father's taunting voice followed him to the door. "The world is yours for the taking. All you have to do is accept your inheritance, son."  
  
Laurence was in such a hurry that he didn't even bother with Mulder's blindfold. He was so eager to get him out of the building that he didn't even fasten Mulder's hands behind his back, but instead swiftly secured them in front of his body, hustling him along the hallway as he did so. Mulder fought him all the way, his chest heaving at the recent exertion. He was bundled into the elevator, and almost lost his balance as it lurched into motion. He crashed against Laurence, and the other man's fingers dug deep into his shoulders.  
  
"I suppose," Laurence hissed in his ear, "that this is your idea of obedience?"  
  
"And I suppose," Mulder snapped back, "that you're shaking like a leaf because you're scared of getting in the fucking car again." He rocked back as Laurence slapped him hard across the jaw, almost sending him flying, but he had seen the raw terror in the other man's eyes. The elevator reached its destination, and he was manhandled into the parking garage and over to a shining stretch limousine.  
  
"Get in."  
  
Mulder stumbled as he was pushed into the car, and the door was slammed shut behind him. He watched Laurence hesitate outside the car door. The other man took several deep breaths, and paced up and down, wiping his hands alternately on his pants and through his stiff, lacquered hair, over and over again. He seemed to be talking to himself, soothing himself for what lay ahead. Finally Laurence had psyched himself up enough to get into the car. He opened the door, climbed in next to Mulder, and directed the chauffeur to drive them home.  
  
"Well you certainly seem to have woken up," Laurence commented, his voice quavering on the edge of hysteria, the pupils dilated in his violet eyes. "Was it all a lie, boy? Hmm? Were you feigning all along?" Mulder gave a startled yelp as Laurence grabbed his hair, and pulled him down backwards over his lap. "Well?" Laurence demanded. The other man's whole body was shaking, and Mulder could smell his sweat.  
  
"Don't be an idiot. Of course it wasn't," he replied. "Christ, what happened to you, Larry? You're a fucking mess. Look at you," he taunted, enjoying the other man's weakness. "Do you need to be in command of your environment so badly, Larry? What are you afraid of? Are you scared something might happen that you can't control? Or do you secretly long for that too? Remember how you felt about that bruise I gave you? That felt good, didn't it?"  
  
"Be quiet!" Laurence snapped through clenched teeth. His eyes darted towards the windows, and he gripped the car seat with one hand and Mulder's hair even tighter with the other.  
  
"Or what, Larry? You can't do anything in case we crash the car and the outside world comes tearing in, Larry. Is that what you're afraid of? Is that why your bedroom doesn't have any windows? Are you scared of the outside world, Larry?" Laurence slapped him hard across the face, and Mulder put his hands up to ward off the blow. He tried to calm himself. Taunting a man this close to the edge of hysteria, in such close confinement, wasn't a wise move. However much he wanted to taunt and gloat he had to be smarter than that. He had to think. What was it his boxing coach had said? Box smart, Mulder. "It's all right, Larry," he said softly. "You're going to be okay."  
  
Laurence made no reply. His adam's apple bobbed convulsively in his throat. His eyes flickered towards the window and then back to Mulder, wildly, as if what he had seen terrified him beyond belief. A low, keening moan escaped from the back of his throat.  
  
"It isn't safe," he hissed, a fine sheen of sweat rising on his face. His eyes were full of panic, and Mulder wasn't even sure if Laurence knew that he was still there. "We need to get home. We'll be safe when we get home. Home is safe." He rocked back and forth, his knuckles white where he was holding onto the seat for dear life. "We'll be safe at home, darling," Laurence crooned. Mulder didn't know whether the other man was talking to him or not, because his gaze was fixed straight ahead. Up until now, Laurence had treated him with varying degrees of brutality interspersed with kindness, but he had always been sane and in control of his actions. Now Mulder was seriously scared that Laurence would hurt him without even knowing what he was doing. The other man was rigid with panic, half out of his mind.  
  
"How long has it been since you last left home, Larry?" Mulder asked, softly, trying to reach the other man before he flipped completely.  
  
"It's been a long time," Laurence whispered.  
  
"Twenty years?" Mulder pressed. "More?"  
  
"No…there are sometimes little journeys that I have to make...sometimes I'm summoned. Not often though. If I can compose myself...our exit was too hasty...I didn't have time to..." Laurence's white hair was soaked dark with sweat. His violet eyes were incandescent with sheer, stark terror. Mulder felt a curious sense of pity, combined with hope. Maybe he wouldn't need Krycek. Maybe he could find his own way out of this nightmare. If he could just get inside Laurence's mind, and find his weaknesses, the way the other man had done to him.  
  
"You have a phobia, Larry," he whispered. "It's called agoraphobia. Would you like me to explain that to you?" Laurence didn't say a word. His eyes were concentrated, fixedly, on the back of the chauffeur's head. Mulder warmed to his theme. He could do explanations. He'd spent half his working life explaining various terms and phenomena to people who didn't understand what the hell he was talking about. Somehow, he had a feeling that it might not matter what he said. He couldn't even be sure that Laurence was listening, but the other man did seem to be soothed by the sound of his voice. Mulder searched his photographic memory for a good explanation of Laurence's phobia.  
  
"You know, Larry, the term 'agoraphobia' has been widely misunderstood," he said, keeping his voice as smooth and without inflection as possible. "Its literal definition suggests a fear of 'open spaces'. However, this is an incomplete and misleading view. Agoraphobics aren't necessarily afraid of open spaces. They're afraid of having panicky feelings, wherever these fearful feelings may occur. For you, that's when you're out in the world, isn't it? You don't like cars, or streets. You don't like seeing the sky, and trees. You feel safe inside buildings, any buildings, don't you, Larry?"  
  
Laurence swallowed convulsively, and his fist tightened in Mulder's hair. He didn't reply. "You feel especially safe in your own home, don't you? You feel safe there because you've created a completely non-threatening environment. No windows, no glimpses of the outside world. And nothing happens there that you don’t control, totally and completely." Mulder paused again. He couldn't be sure that Laurence was even hearing him, but the other man's grip on his hair became tighter when Mulder stopped talking, and loosened a degree when he started again. Mulder tried desperately to think of more facts to spout, in an attempt to keep his captor calm, so that the other man wouldn't hurt him. He had a mental image of Scully, rolling her eyes at him as he commenced yet another dry, factual lecture.  
  
"Agoraphobia arises from an internal anxiety condition that has become so intense that the suffering individual fears going anywhere or doing anything where these feelings of panic have repeatedly occurred before. A person may fear having anxiety attacks, 'losing control', or embarrassing himself in such situations. You'd hate that, wouldn't you, Larry? You'd hate for people to see you lose control - especially your bosses in the Syndicate. Maybe you're afraid of their reaction to seeing you like this. You're a fastidious kind of man. Very tidy, very well groomed, very together, meticulous even - anyone can see that just by looking at you. It's quite normal for you not to want people to know, Larry. Many people remain in a painful state of anxious anticipation because of these fears. Some become restricted or housebound, just like you, Larry, while others function normally but with great difficulty, often attempting to hide their discomfort. It's nothing to be ashamed of, Larry. A lot of folks suffer from this condition. You could get it treated, but that would mean admitting that you have a problem."  
  
"No," Laurence said in a low, desperate tone. "If you show any weakness then you're lost. They use it against you." He released his grip on the car seat, and smoothed his hand through his hair, over and over again, rocking back and forth as he did so. These repetitive movements seemed to calm him - or at least to distract him from the streets whizzing by outside. Maybe they gave him an illusion of control.  
  
"Who's 'they', Larry?" Mulder questioned gently.  
  
"I told you about them - the older, bigger boys. They crowd around you, shouting, and jeering." Laurence put his hands over his ears. Mulder frowned, trying to pull together all the tiny fragments he had picked up during his time with this sick, demented man.  
  
"Was this when you were a kid, Larry?" He asked, his mind making one of its great leaps of intuition that he had relied upon all his life. "Were you an orphan? Were you brought up in a children's home?"  
  
"Home." Laurence nodded, but Mulder wasn't sure if he had gotten that right, or whether Laurence was just urging the car faster so that he could return to his sanctuary.  
  
"Because your parents were dead? No…a grandparent…a grandparent died?" Mulder guessed softly. Laurence nodded, absently, but again, Mulder couldn't be sure whether this was because he had made a correct guess, or whether Laurence was lost in some personal drama of his own. "You talked about parents not having time for their kids." Mulder closed his eyes, and tried to bring back the memories of that conversation. "Is that what happened to you, Larry? Your mom and dad didn't have time for you? They left you with your…grandmother? And when she died you had to go into a children's home?"  
  
"Inside the home was fine. It was when they used to make us go outside…to get some fresh air, they said. That's where the worst of it happened. Inside is safe," Laurence said firmly. Mulder gazed longingly at the streets whizzing by outside the car windows. If only he could crash out of this nightmare world, and back into a reality that he had almost ceased to believe even existed, but he didn't stand a chance. He was naked, chained, inside this car with its tinted windows, and there were no handles on the locked doors. He was trapped in here, as surely as Laurence was trapped inside his own memories right now. He tried to pick up other threads of their conversations, to keep Laurence talking.  
  
"What happened to your father, Larry? Why did he leave you in the home?"  
  
Laurence opened his mouth, and closed it again, and when he started to speak it was in a faltering, hesitant voice, far removed from his usual smooth, cultured tones. "I was four years old…when he carried me from the ship…onto…onto dry land. I had just learned how to speak Polish and then they made me learn English. I can still remember the way the boat…rocked…and swayed…it was a stormy journey. I was sick the whole time. I've never felt so ill in my life." Laurence gripped Mulder's hair again, making him wince. "My grandmother took care of me through the sickness. Ssh, Laiurenty," he whispered. Mulder gave a start of surprise; Laurence's voice had changed completely. His accent was pronounced and guttural, and he sounded like a little old lady. "Ssh, Laiurenty," he repeated, soothing Mulder's hair gently with shaking fingers, as if he were the sick child, and Laurence had become the grandmother. He said something else in Polish, something that Mulder couldn't understand, and then, abruptly, he was Laurence again. "I was so ill that it scared me. I made a vow never to go on a boat again, and I never have," Laurence said, in a proud, triumphant voice. Mulder exhaled sharply; this man, who had assumed such nightmare proportions in his own world, was just a scared kid, imposing his own rigid, childlike structures on an outside world that had frightened him all his life.  
  
"You were an immigrant? What happened to your folks, Larry? Why didn't they want you?" Mulder inquired carefully. This might be the only opportunity he had to get into the other man's mind, while his defenses were down. It was clear that Laurence was distracting himself from his sheer terror of being out in the world by talking, and saying something, anything, that would stop him from having to think.  
  
"Mama couldn't settle. She used to…used to…drink." Laurence's face was creased with pain. "Drank herself senseless. She couldn't take care of anyone, least of all me." There was a catch in his voice as he said that. "That was why I was sent to live with my Grandmother. She was kind. She was good to me…but she died when I was ten, leaving me all alone."  
  
"What about your father?" Mulder asked softly. "Wasn't he there to take care of you?"  
  
"Papa...Papa was a war hero." Laurence's face shone with both sweat and a peculiar kind of pride.  
  
"A war hero huh?" Mulder said, keeping his voice low, and unthreatening, taking care not to jolt the other man out of his reminiscences. "Which war was that, Larry?"  
  
"Korea." The car turned a sharp corner, and Laurence emitted a high-pitched shriek that sounded like an animal in agony. Mulder moved his bound arms, grabbed Larry's free hand in his own and started to massage it softly.  
  
"Did he die out there, Larry? Is that why he didn't come back for you?" Mulder asked, pulling his captor back again, distracting him from his fear in order to learn more. Laurence's face twisted in pain, and he turned rage-filled eyes on Mulder, his body rigid with anger.  
  
"He did come back for me," he hissed. "I told the other boys in the children's home that he was going to come back for me and he did!"  
  
"What happened then?" Mulder whispered. "It's okay. You can tell me, Larry. I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying with you. We're going home together, remember?"  
  
Laurence nodded, a stiff, staccato movement. "I was 13. I had been waiting, waiting, and waiting. Papa was going to take me home again. He was a war hero. I told the other boys, the bullies, that when Papa came back he'd grind their faces into the dust. He'd hurt them, the way they'd hurt me." Laurence's hands balled into fists, taking Mulder's hair with them. He bit back a yelp. The other man radiated pure sadistic anger. After all that had happened to him at this man's hands, Mulder felt more in danger at this moment in time than he had ever felt before. A lifetime's pursuit of revenge had been created through one child's bad experiences so many years ago.  
"What happened when your father came back, Larry?" Mulder pushed, his tone as gentle as he could make it, massaging Larry's stiff, cold fingers with his own. He wondered what would happen when they got back to the house, and whether Laurence would even remember what he had said. The other man was paler than a ghost, his body liberally soaked with sweat. His usually immaculate hair was tousled, and his fingers were trembling.  
  
"He...gave me a packet of cigarettes, and a five dollar bill," Laurence whispered, in a tone of utter desolation. "Told me I was on my own. He'd made his own way on the streets of Warsaw when he was my age. I could do the same on the streets of Chicago. Then he walked out of my life." Mulder could feel the pain even through the years. It was still raw, still an open wound in the other man's psyche.  
  
"That must have been pretty devastating, Larry," he said softly.  
  
"No. No!" Laurence snapped. "What hurt was that they knew. They all knew, the bastards. I wanted to hurt their stupid, ignorant faces, to grind them under my feet for knowing, and for the way they gathered around me, taunting, and laughing, and jeering at me. I still do." He ground the palm of his hand hard into Mulder's face. Mulder tried to scrabble out of the way, desperately seeking some kind of purchase with his legs and bound arms, and finally managed to wrest his head away, and move it out of reach, choking. He rolled off Laurence's lap, onto the floor of the car, and knelt, gazing up at his tormentor.  
  
"I'm not them, Larry," he whispered.  
  
"Oh yes you are," Laurence replied, in a chilling tone.  
  
His gaze was now utterly psychotic. Mulder sank back against the panel dividing them from the chauffeur, filled with terror. Laurence reached out and tore at Mulder with his fingernails, gouging down his chest, and across his face, and Mulder curled himself into a ball, trying to stay as small as possible, and present the least surface area. Then it stopped. The car came to a halt, shrouded by the darkness of the underground parking garage, and with the cessation of movement came respite. Mulder could hear the sound of Laurence's harsh breathing above him, and risked looking up. The other man was a mess. He was panting hard, and his hands were covering his eyes as he rocked himself back and forth.  
  
"It's okay, Larry, we're home," Mulder said, almost as relieved as his tormentor that the nightmare journey was over. "It's okay, you're home," he whispered again. "You're safe now, Larry. Safe."  
  
Laurence moved his hands, and looked down on him, still shaking.  
  
"Home," he said, unsteadily. "Safe."  
  
*****  
  
The walls of my house are soothing. I had them decorated in dark, olive-green, flock wallpaper. I love the feel of the paper under my fingers. It's like felt; warm, almost living and breathing. I love my house. I can feel my equilibrium return with each step I take through its welcoming hallways. It hums to me. I can tell whether there is anything amiss by the sound of the doors opening and closing, and the creaking of the floorboards. Like a captain on a ship, I know my abode so very well. I can feel myself restored just by being here, comforted in my familiar environs. My step quickens as I reach the salon, and I sink down on my familiar couch, the fire warming me. I'm so cold. It was cold outside, and it's making me shiver. If I just sit, and close my eyes, I'll soon warm up. Then everything will be all right. The fabric of the couch is so familiar and soft under my fingertips. I play with it, stroking it gently, feeling that ugly nightmare receding. Maybe it didn't even happen.  
  
"Larry?"  
  
That's strange. I could have sworn I was alone in the room. I open my eyes and see one of my recruits - Mulder - standing looking at me. The poor boy has a very anxious expression on his face, and he's quite badly scratched, as if he's been in a fight with a particularly vicious cat.  
  
"What is it?" I murmur. Damn, but he's watchful. Those hazel eyes are devouring me, eating me whole. He always was too knowing.  
  
"Are you all right, Larry?" he asks.  
  
"Of course. How sweet of you to be concerned." I wave his inquiry away with a flick of my hand. The dutymen by the door are looking at me with very strange expressions. I can't think why.  
  
"You're chained, dear boy? Why on earth are you chained? Anyone would think you were going somewhere. Dutymen - unfasten his cuffs." I wave my hand negligently, and pluck my handkerchief from my pocket. It's scented with lavender - good for clearing a headache. I press it against my brow, and inhale deeply, closing my eyes again.  
  
"I don't think you are okay, Larry. I think you're very lonely. I think you want to be taken care of, the way you always take care of everyone else. Isn't that so?" He really does have the most beautiful voice. It's like velvet. I can't believe that I ever found it wry or mono-toned. It's soothing - very deep.  
  
"Loneliness is a professional hazard, dear boy," I tell him. I'd open my eyes but I'm very much afraid that the room will swim if I do. "Tell me, does the floor seem quite solid to you?" I ask him.  
  
"The floor's fine, Larry," he replies in those comforting tones. "You're shaking. I don't think you're well." I hear him settle on the couch next to me, and then, hesitantly, he puts his hand on my arm. "You don't need to be alone any more, Larry," he whispers. "You're safe now. You don't always have to be the one in control either. You can rely on others. Not everybody wants to hurt you. We're not all like that."  
  
Such a dear boy. I pat his thigh absently.  
  
"I think you'd like to give up control, Larry. I think you want someone else to take charge. All these years of looking after everyone, breaking them down, building them back up, seeing to their needs...they've taken their toll, Larry. I think you just want to relax, and let your guard down."  
  
It does sound very appealing. The hand on my arm moves, and slides around my shoulder. He really does have such strong arms. Very safe. Very warm. I move slightly, just to get a little more comfortable. He smells so delicious as well, but then again, he always did. I nuzzle at his naked flesh, and then find myself resting my head on his smooth, creamy skinned shoulder. He rubs soothing circles on my back. I can't remember ever having felt this loved. Oh, the trainees try, they really do, but they don't love me like this. Nobody has ever loved me the way he loves me.  
  
"The trouble with breaking people, Larry," he whispers, "is that you can never tell whether they would have come willingly. You can never be sure whether it's you they love, or whether they're just afraid of your power to hurt them."  
  
"Hurt...? Why would I want to hurt anyone?" I ask in surprise. "What I do is for their own good. This way I can protect them from the others. I can make them into useful creatures who'll do as they're told and won't answer back, and that way they'll stay safe."  
  
"Is that the way you've always stayed safe, Larry?" he asks.  
  
"Of course. I make myself useful to the people in charge. They don't know what I'm thinking. They have no idea how much I despise them."  
  
"Ah." He exhales into my hair, and I'm sure I can feel his lips press against my head. "You know, Larry, you don't have to break people in order to keep them safe." I open my eyes and look into his. They're close, too close, and they're full of affection. He touches my hair with gentle fingers. "Take me for example, Larry," he says softly, as if he's holding his breath. "If you break me - and I'm not saying you can't - but if you do, then you'll never be able to enjoy moments like this with me again, will you?" His eyes are so very sincere. "You'll always have to be the one comforting me, taking care of me. If I'm broken I won't be able to take care of you like this, Larry." His fingers lightly stroke my neck. "Remember when I hurt you, Larry?" He whispers. "I think you liked that just a little, didn't you? I think you'd like to feel someone else was in charge; someone big, and powerful, and strong. You're attracted to power, Larry. You're afraid of it, but you're drawn to it all the same. You'd like to surrender to those strong arms you talked about. You remember that you told me that was why I was attracted to Walter? I think you understood that attraction because you feel it yourself. You want to sink into strong arms, Larry. You want to be held, and comforted. Nobody ever does that for you, Larry, and you want it so much. If you break me, then I won't be able to do this for you, Larry. You can order me, but that won't be the same, will it? If you break me, then you lose me, Larry. It happened to all the others didn't it? You grew bored with them, didn't you, Larry? When they stopped being interesting, after you broke them, then you got bored with them. I don't want to bore you, Larry, and I don't think you want that either."  
  
I trace my fingertips over his pretty lips; he always could say such interesting things. He tightens his hold around my shoulders. He has such strong arms...such beautiful, strong, comforting arms. I could stay here forever in these arms, enjoying this moment. Just he and I, lovers, entwined in our own little world. There's no need for the outside world to keep intruding. We don't need the outside world.  
  
"So you see that you have to let me go, Larry. You'll never know if I'll come back if you don't let me go. You do see that, don't you?" He asks. "You don't want me broken. If you let me go then I'll always be here for you, in your mind, always fascinating, and interesting, the way you like me. But if you break me, I'll be like all the others. I think you felt empty after you broke them didn't you? You put everything into breaking them and then they left you." I bristle at that remark, and gaze at him sharply. He comes back into focus, not my lover at all, but my recruit, my dear Mulder, my wild little fox cub. Ah, he's so very beautiful when he's playing me, fighting me, struggling to win his freedom; very beautiful indeed.  
  
"No...no," he corrects quickly. "You sent them away. They didn't leave you, you sent them away, but the end result is the same. You feel empty when they've gone. Even when you achieve your greatest triumph, even when you break them, even at that very moment, the emptiness is already starting to creep into your heart isn't it? You know you'll send them away soon, and they'll just be boring statistics. Just more people you broke. Special, yes, but not interesting any more. That's why you don't want to break me, Larry. If you just let me go, then you can keep me forever in a way."  
  
He's right of course - about all of it. So right. I always said he was smart. Cunning. My clever Fox is very definitely well named.  
  
"Oh, my darling," I caress his face, and he smiles, those strong arms warming me through. I really do wish I could stay here forever. "You have been so worthy of me, dear heart. I knew you'd be the culmination of my work, and I was right. You are. If only you meant all those loving words you just spoke." My fingers travel down to his throat, and slide easily around it.  
  
"If only they hadn't all been lies to deceive and destroy me." I press my fingers deeply, viciously into his flesh, and he gasps, and puts his hands up to stop me strangling him. The dutymen come over to see if I need any assistance, but I wave them away and push him down on the floor. His face is covered in the myriad of tiny little scratches I gave him in the car, flecks of blood rising against his pale skin. I lean down over him, and smile. "Of course I must break you, darling; now, more than ever. You must see that. Take him downstairs," I order the dutymen, and Mulder exhales loudly, and noisily, but there's also something else in his eyes...hope?  
  
"Don't send me back to the Recreation Room," he begs, those smart eyes glowing as the dutymen fasten his cuffs together again behind his back. "Please, not that! Anything but that!"  
  
"Oh darling!" I laugh. "Of course not." I grasp his hair, and pull back his head until his throat is exposed, so that I can look into his upside-down eyes. "Did Alex tell you I hadn't broken him?" I ask, and those eyes widen in surprise. "Ah, is that what he told you? Maybe he even believes it, but of course I did break him. Did he offer to help you escape? Ah, of course he did." It's so obvious in Mulder's eyes, but I knew it anyway. Alex and I have shared so much together. I know that boy like the back of my own hand. "Do you think I don't know the way every single neuron in his devious little mind works? I expect he suggested the Recreation Room as your means of escape, yes? It's the only place in here that he'd have access to."  
  
"No," he whispers, a look of total, abject fear in his eyes. Ah, taking away his hope is like stealing candy from a baby. It's so very sweet. I watch the color drain from his face, and his body slumps beneath my hands. It won't take too long to break him now. He has nothing left to help him resist me. He's failed.  
  
"Alex Krycek won't be coming to rescue you, dear heart." I soothe his hopeless face with my fingers. "It's just going to be you and me in the Delivery Room for the next few days. Just a few more days of pain, and then we can liberate the Fox Mulder inside, the one who wants so desperately to be free. Just a few more days of pain. You can take that, hmm? Just a few more days before I break you, and then you're going to be so happy, my love, so very, very happy."  
  
I watch them carry him kicking and screaming out of the door, resisting to the last, struggling with every last ounce of his strength as they replace his blindfold, and manhandle him out of the salon. Doesn't he know that it's all over? He's had his last toss of the dice and he's lost. I do so hate bad losers. He really has been so very cruel as well; taking advantage of my small moment of weakness earlier to taunt me and tempt me. Charles was right; like father, like son. Mulder has the same ruthless core that I've seen in his father. I should have expected nothing less, but still! To use the little frailties I revealed to him under duress in such an evil way…the boy deserves everything he gets.  
  
I take a quick shower, and spend some time alone to recover my equilibrium after what has really been a very trying day, but the matter can't be delayed, and, although I'm tired, I'm far too excited to sleep. Finally, after all these weeks, my big moment is upon me.  
  
It is time to go and finally break Fox Mulder.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 In the absence of any other instructions, the dutymen have tied Mulder, in an upright position, to the bar at the far end of the room. They've also threaded tight straps round his body and secured him to the post to keep him in place, should I want to whip him. I do want to whip him, but I don't want him tied in place. On the contrary, I want him to flail and thrash around. I also want him to watch himself being whipped. There's nothing more demoralizing to someone in the final stages before breaking than seeing themselves in agony. To this end, I will move two full-length mirrors into place, one in front of him, and one behind him. Mulder is still when I come in, but he stiffens as he hears my footsteps.  
  
"Larry? Is that you?" He asks. "I know it is. I can tell by the scent. I know how you smell, Larry. What is that scent? Lavender, and something else."  
  
"I have no idea what you mean, dear boy." I pause for a moment, and gaze at him. He's so beautiful, standing bound, shackled and naked, waiting for my attention. I drink in the sight of him, but I can't keep from touching him. He's too adorable. I stand behind him, stroking his buttocks gently, and he shivers.  
  
"Does that feel good, Larry?" he asks me. "Do you like touching me?"  
  
"You know I do, darling." I remove his blindfold, and begin undoing the straps around his body. "You're looking very pale, my sweet. There are hardly any marks on this beautiful white flesh. Unfortunately I haven't been able to beat you as much as I would have liked recently, or as much as you deserved, because I didn't want you too badly marked for your debut in front of the Elite. Now that this is over, I can give you the kind of long whipping you need." I position the mirrors, and then fetch his whip from above his table.  
  
"Do I need that, Larry?" He asks. "Or do you just need to feel as if you're in control again? Would whipping me make you forget what happened in the car, Larry?"  
  
He really is very annoying. I'd gag him, except for the fact that I really want to hear him scream - and I want him to hear himself scream as well.  
  
"Hush, darling. I want you to concentrate on your whip, not on the labyrinthine workings of your mind. I want you to switch off from all those whirring thoughts, and just watch yourself as you suffer, and listen to the sound of your own screams. I want you to scream for a long time, my sweet. For hours and hours. I want you to lose yourself in screaming." I run the whip lightly over his body, and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.  
  
"You mean you want to shut me up, Larry, because you don't want to hear what I have to say," he comments.  
  
"You don't have anything to say, dear heart. Nothing at all." I draw back my arm, and deliver the first stroke hard across his back, trailing it down over his left buttock. He jack-knifes against the post, flailing, held up only by his wrist cuffs, just as I wanted.  
  
"I do, Larry. You can't silence me," he grunts, a fine sheen of sweat already breaking out on his skin.  
  
"Yes, I can, my sweet. Now, watch yourself in the mirrors. Watch how beautifully you suffer. Then, maybe, you'll understand what it is I love about you."  
  
He can't help but look into the mirror. It's right in front of him and he's tied so he can't look anywhere else. He gazes at his own pale reflection, and I know he can see the one long red welt that is already rising on his back, reflected in the mirror behind me. Another stroke has him shuddering, trying hard not to scream out loud.  
  
"You will scream for me, darling," I tell him. "We have time. I won't stop until you're screaming. In fact, I won't even stop then. I want you to scream for hours, my sweet. I want you to scream until you become your screams, and they're the only sound in your head."  
  
"Larry, you can't obliterate me completely. You can't make me into nothing. I'll still be here, somewhere inside, even when you make me scream. You're just scared, Larry." I snap the whip at him again, and he convulses, and then is still, panting harshly. "You're scared of what happened to you today, Larry. It reminded you of being a kid again, didn't it? Out of control, out in the big, wide world, and at the mercy of the older, stronger boys. You were scared. Whipping me won't cure your fear, Larry, or your phobia."  
  
I whip him hard, not pausing between the strokes now, and he's soon screaming, as I predicted. When he isn't screaming, he tries so hard to speak to me, to reason with me. It's...annoying.  
  
"Larry, Larry!" That voice. That beautiful, ironic voice, punctuated by cries of distress. It's so arousing, but we need to make him move beyond speech, and into the realm of pure pain. "Some…of the things you said…to me were wrong, Larry. Whipping me...wo…won't change that!" he shrieks, as the whip rises and falls inexorably, marking that pale flesh with lines of pure, red beauty. "You said...my father gave me to you because he doesn't care, but you were wrong. He said so. He gave me to you because he does care, because...because… he wants me to be with him, on his side, and at his side, and not opposed to him…fuck...shit!" He whimpers pathetically. He's slumped in his cuffs now, barely able to stand. He swings as I beat him, and his chest, stomach, groin, and the front of his legs end up receiving as much punishment as his back, as was my intention. "You told me Walter abandoned me, but he…didn't. He didn't… If he hadn't left when he did then...oh Christ…please stop...please..." I ignore his pleas and continue with my work, and he struggles to find the fight to keep on speaking, and when he does continue, it's with long pauses, and he screams as much as he talks. "If...if he hadn't left then I would have been the one who walked out. I was just…just...a kid. I was freaked out by our relationship. I hadn't…been… in...love before...I didn't know what I wanted."  
  
He screams for several long minutes as the whip flashes down faster, and harder. Then, panting, he tries to talk again. "So you see...Larry, I know you. I know how you operate. I know…I know...I know you use pain to break people down, and then use the power of...of...shit!..of...suggestion to torture them mentally, so they don't know what to think any more. I know you talk bullshit... sometimes, but with enough of the truth thrown in to confuse." My arm is really starting to ache. I hope he quiets soon. The only sound I want to hear from his lips is the delicious symphony of screaming.  
  
"And...even if you make me shut up, Larry...even if you…break me...finally…you'll know. You'll know, when...you look at me, that…that…I've seen you being…weak. I've seen you break down…shit…please...please. I've seen you, Larry. I…know you. Oh god, please make it end. I know...I kn...know all about the frightened little boy you keep hidden inside. I know all about Laiurenty."  
  
He's gone too far. I must shut him up or he'll ruin everything. I show him no mercy now. The whip is like quicksilver in my hand and I know he's close to the edge but somehow, in between cries of pain and gasps for breath, he still manages to keep talking.  
  
"Laiurenty...the...boy who's afraid of the outside...world…the...one…please stop...who…tries…to…keep...himself...safe…please...please...by...controlling everything…around…him."  
  
A splash of red on the floor breaks me out of my trance. His back has started to bleed, which wasn't my intention at all. I do hate blood. It's so messy, and it stains. I don't like to break the skin because that can lead to infection and scarring. I'm annoyed; I'm usually so careful. I have no choice but to stop, and he hasn't performed the way I wanted. Why is he so difficult? Why will he never do as he's supposed to? I knew he'd be a challenge - that's why I wanted him after all - but I never knew he'd be this hard to break. It's always one step forward, two steps back with him. Every time I think I have a breakthrough he slips away from me, finds some defense I had not anticipated. I think, finally, that I might have to use the last resort. I wanted to save this, because if it doesn't work then nothing will, and I will have to admit defeat.  
  
I unfasten his cuffs, and he slumps immediately to the floor, where he lies, looking up at me, those hazel eyes shining bright, and intense.  
  
"I told you, Larry. I did warn you that I might not break. I said that you might end up killing me in the process."  
  
"Oh, you'll break, darling," I tell him tenderly, lifting him up, and half-walking, half-carrying him back to the table. "You see, there's one thing left that I haven't done, and I think it will achieve the desired result."  
  
I nod to the dutyman at the door, and he disappears into the storeroom as I begin to strap Mulder down on the table. He puts up a token struggle, his bloodied hands locked with mine, but he's been too badly beaten to resist for long. His blood has stained my shirt by the time I'm through. I hate that. I can't wait to go upstairs and change. It's so distasteful. He sees the curl of my lips, and laughs.  
  
"Sorry for bleeding on you, Larry. My apologies. I know how you hate mess."  
  
"You will be sorry in a moment, dear heart," I tell him, fastening him in the delivery position, which of course he hates. They all hate this position. It's so exposed, so vulnerable. The dutyman returns, making a noise as he enters the room. Mulder turns his head, looks at what the dutyman is pushing, and frowns.  
  
"That's right, my sweet. It's a brazier. He'll be bringing in another in a second. You see, dear heart, I couldn't help noticing something about you. Most of my recruits, when they're cold, huddle as close to the fire as it's humanly possible to be without burning. You don't, darling. You content yourself with sitting on the couch, near the fire, but not too close. It made me wonder, dear boy, whether you weren't a little afraid of the fire. Ah, you could sit watching it, but you didn't want to be close enough to feel it burn your skin. So I checked your file, darling. I found out about your little childhood experience that made you afraid of fire. I'm not the only one with a phobia, am I, my sweet?" I stroke his hair back away from his face, and his eyes widen in panic. "There, there. We're not ready yet. What I'm going to do is start little fires in the braziers. We'll position them close to your table. I wonder how you'll scream when I put your arm in the flame, hmm? Or maybe I'll light a candle, and trail it down your chest. The wax might drip a little, but I don't think that will bother you. I think it's the flame that will scare you, hmm? Did you know that you can hold human flesh in a flame for quite a few seconds without causing any serious harm? We can go on like that for hours. It'll be fun."  
  
He's gone quite pale, and his face is sweaty in the dim light, his eyes dark. Now he knows what it feels like to suffer a phobia-induced panic attack. I push the braziers close, and, bound as he is, he can't move away from them. He can see the coals already arranged inside them. The dutyman lights each brazier, and the coals begin smoldering. It takes them a little while to warm up but when the flames start to rise Mulder stares at them with huge eyes, his pupils dilated, and his breathing coming fast and shallow. The dear boy is almost hyperventilating. It's a very pleasing reaction. I hadn't expected anything so dramatic, so soon, and I force the pace by moving the braziers even closer to the table. He isn't in any danger of burning - but the fact that he can't move away from the flames is clearly terrifying the darling creature. He whimpers, and tugs on his cuffs, unable to take his eyes off the flames, fixated by them almost.  
  
"What's the matter, darling? You've suddenly gone very quiet." I smile, still stroking his hair, leaning over him. Soon, Mulder. Soon you will be mine.  
  
"Larry," he whispers, his eyes still on the flames as if he's unable to tear his gaze away. "Larry, you can do this to me. Maybe you'll even break me if you do, but do you really want that? This is your last chance." His voice is hoarse, choked with fear. "I've told you before, if you break me, you lose me, the way you lost all the others. Is that why you didn't take Alex all the way down, Larry? So that you'd have the pleasure of seeing him again? Didn't you say that they sent him back to you sometimes, Larry? Wasn't he the one you identified with most? Living on the streets, an orphan. Unloved, unwanted...why did it take you so long to break him, Larry? Maybe you never really wanted to let him go. Hmm?"  
  
Ah. Alex. My dear Alex. He fought me, not with his wits, as Mulder has done, but with his passion, and his fire. I loved him, as I loved them all, but none of them as much as I love Mulder. He has been a truly worthy adversary.  
  
"Break me, and you lose me, Larry," he whispers. With a great act of will, he tears his gaze away from the flames. "Remember that. Break me and I become just like all the others, and you'll be empty again. Don't you hate that empty feeling? Hmm? It makes you feel so alone. Even having me near you, knowing that you've broken me down to nothing, that you have that power over me...you crave that power, but it leaves you restless, and dissatisfied, doesn't it, Larry?"  
  
"A soft science," I murmur, kissing his pretty lips gently. "Isn't that how you thought Walter viewed psychology? Maybe it has its uses - yes, my darling?"  
  
I caress his face lovingly. I do love him so much. I don't want to lose him. I could break him. I can feel victory at the end of my fingertips. It's so nearly in sight. He's lost, alone, defeated, lying here on this table, awaiting my final actions that will make him totally, and irrevocably mine. It's so easy. It's so close. I let my fingers linger, regretfully on his face, as if I could map every last contour of it, by touch alone. I will miss him so much. I will miss this verbal sparring, this endless back and forth. None of my other recruits ever spoke to me like this. Soon he will be calling me 'sir', and obeying my every whim. He won't call me Larry any more, and that hurts. It hurts deep inside. He won't be Mulder any more, my beautiful adversary. He'll be just like all the rest.  
  
"Larry," he whispers softly. "You don't have to do this." His voice is like a caress, like a siren's song, beguiling, and tempting. I can't stay down here for one more second. I must go.  
  
"Stay here and consider the flames, dear heart," I whisper to him. "I'll be back when you've had time to think."  
  
I flee. I flee back to the safety of my salon. I was wrong to go down there so soon after such a dreadful day. I feel confused, and yet, there's a streak of hard, cold truth in my situation that I cannot avoid: Mulder is right.  
  
I sit at my desk in my salon, and open a file with shaking fingers. It's the file Charles sent over: Walter Skinner's file. I pull out the clearest picture I have of him. My rival. Mulder's lost love. Walter Skinner is the person in Mulder's heart. I could put myself there, but he wouldn't be Mulder any more. The new Mulder will love me, but he won't be the bright, shining, brilliant man I have tied up downstairs. He'll be someone else, someone much less interesting. I can never make the old Mulder love me because he already loves someone else. Walter Skinner; so big, so powerful, so self-assured. The bigger boys always win. It isn't fair.  
  
A knock on the door rouses me from my reverie, and the dutyman passes me a message. "Someone wants to use the Recreation Room, sir. Shall I tell him there's nobody in there today?" They always have to apply to use the Recreation Room. I insist on speaking to each one individually to remind them of the rules of that room, and ensure that the recruit inside isn't damaged.  
  
"What? Yes...no, wait...who is it?"  
  
"Krycek, sir."  
  
"Krycek? Send him in. I want to talk to him. And leave us. You can wait outside the door."  
  
Alex Krycek. Was Mulder right? Did I hold back from breaking him down completely because I could not bear to lose him? It's true that he's been sent back to me for Remedial Treatment a few times, and I've so enjoyed playing with that soft, supple skin again. It was interesting when he lost his arm. I was prepared to be repulsed, but instead found the stump most fascinating, although we did have to adjust our restraint techniques, which was a challenge. He walks into my room, with that famous Krycek swagger, but I can see beneath the bravado. I always could with Alex.  
  
"You wanted to use the Recreation Room, Alex?" I sit back in my chair, and watch his reactions. He gives the tiniest, almost imperceptible shift of his shoulders, always a giveaway to his mental state, but he's such a fantastic little actor that few other people would pick up on that nervous gesture.  
  
"Yeah. Is that okay?" he asks.  
  
"You've never asked to use that particular room before."  
  
He shrugs, nonchalantly. I wander over to him, and caress his cheek lovingly. He stiffens, as they all do, and then pretends that he's relaxed, meeting my gaze with his flashing eyes, that tell me so much about his still passionate nature. We've never quite been able to subdue that passion.  
  
"Why now?" I whisper, caressing the back of his neck with my fingertips, while looking deep into his gorgeous jade green eyes. Alex and I have a special bond. He is the only one of my trainees who is regularly returned to me for Remedial Treatment and that gives me an intimacy with him that I often lose with my creatures. Alex is in an unusual position; still subject to my discipline, and yet also a valuable Syndicate operative, who has earned the privileges of the salon and smoking rooms in his own right. It's an awkward fence to straddle, but so delicious to watch him squirm as he tries to do just that.  
  
"Do you get turned on by the idea of sinking yourself into bound, gagged, helpless flesh, Alex?" I purr. "Do you have fond memories of your own sessions in that room, and maybe want to experience what it's like from a different perspective? Hmm?"  
  
"Maybe." He shrugs, his shoulders full of tension. I run my hand down over his arm, and trace the line under his shirt where the prosthetic meets his flesh. It's taking all his willpower to stay still, and not move away from my caress.  
  
"Or maybe you hoped that Mulder would be there," I comment. His shoulders now hunch fractionally, but his eyes remain clear of emotion. He's so perfectly impassive, and that tells me all that I need to know.  
  
"Yes, I did," he replies, with what would be disarming honesty if it weren't such a blatant lie. "I only had a taste of him earlier. I want more."  
  
"Ah." What a perfect reply. The two of them do, after all, have a history of enmity reaching back a long way. But I know my Alex too well. I know that even though Mulder is his enemy, he also identifies with the dear boy in some way. Maybe Mulder has led a life that Alex craves for himself, but knows he can never have. He sees in Mulder someone he wanted to be, someone he still thinks he is inside. Seeing Mulder here, in my salon, suffering under my tender care, he longs to effect the escape for Mulder that he has always denied himself.  
  
"Is that so?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. I wander around behind him, and gently kiss the back of his neck, making the fine hairs there stand on end. "Come now, Alex - the truth," I purr into his ear. He stiffens again, and makes a small sound in the back of his throat. I can sense how scared he is. He's worried about being sent back to me for Remedial Treatment if he admits to his intent. "You know I can always see through your lies, good at them though you are," I whisper. I think he wants to flee. His eyes dart, anxiously, towards the door, where the dutymen are standing. Now, technically, Charles hasn't requested any correction for him, so he isn't being detained here, and could leave, but he's unsure where he stands right now - which is just the way I like him. "I'm waiting, Alex," I murmur, still nuzzling the back of his neck. He swallows, hard.  
  
"I'm not lying." He stands his ground, and I tighten my grip on his shoulders.  
  
"Alex. You know how I feel about dishonesty, don't you?" I murmur. "I abhor it. Now, if you just tell the truth then you won't be hurt. Why are you asking to use the Recreation Room?" He makes no reply. I massage his shoulders gently. "You're so tense. Just tell the truth and you can relax. You won't be harmed. I don't want to have to whip you, Alex." I run my fingers through those dark locks. He has darker hair than my darling boy downstairs, and I've always loved running my fingers through it. When he still makes no reply, I tip him over the edge, and take away his choices. "Come now, Alex. I know why you're here. You're here to rescue Mulder, aren't you?"  
  
The color drains from his face, anger vying with terror in his expression. "No!" He says, too quickly. I shake my head, making a little noise of censure, and he explodes, as he always does under pressure from me. "It's true that I think this whole thing is nuts but I'm not planning a rescue. I can't believe those crazy old men sanctioned you to do this to Mulder. He isn't one of us for fuck's sake. This could ruin us - don't you see that? Mulder's an FBI agent, he's not just some screwed up kid off the streets who you can manipulate at will."  
  
"Is that how you still see yourself?" I ask him tenderly, stroking my hands down his arms. Such a pretty little speech.  
  
"It's what I'll always be inside. You know that." He shrugs. He and I are beyond any pretense in that respect. He's shared so much with me in his time, after punishment, lying naked, and unguarded in my arms, gibbering in pain. I gaze at him for a long time. He's so very sweet, to have risked so much for a man who hates him. It's enough to make a tear rise to my eye. My two boys! Working together at last! It's adorable. All the same, I do have a real issue to address here. I gaze at him speculatively, and he tries to gaze back, unflinching, but it takes all his strength.  
  
"Don't lie to me any more, Alex. Tell me about your plan to rescue Mulder."  
  
"I don't have a plan. There wouldn't be any point. He's too well guarded," he snaps.  
  
"But you're very well trained," I point out. "You have many…skills," I add, in a silky tone.  
  
"So do your dutymen," he retorts. "And they're as equally well trained. Oh, I could probably get past them, but they'd struggle, and that might make too much noise. It might bring someone running. And then there are the internal cameras. I probably couldn't disable all of them. They might pick me up and then..." He shrugs.  
  
"I agree - it wouldn't be easy. You'd almost certainly need the aid of someone on the inside." I let that little bombshell fall, gazing at him steadily, and his green eyes flash, uncertainly. "You'd need to make sure the guards on the door were drugged, and the security cameras were out of action."  
  
"I don't know anyone on the inside," he says. I smile, and massage my fingers hard into his shoulders. He gives a muffled grunt of pain as I find the deep knots of tension.  
  
"Now, having gotten him to your car, where would you take him?" I ask, ignoring that last comment. He's looking at me intently, weighing me up, and now he starts to enter into the spirit of the conversation a little more.  
  
"I don't know." He shrugs. "To Scully I suppose."  
  
"No, not to Dr. Scully." I glance at the picture of Walter Skinner, my rival. I wonder if he truly deserves the treasure lying locked up downstairs. Would he appreciate such a gift if it turned up on his doorstep? Can I truly bring myself to give him such a gift?  
  
"Not Scully?" Alex repeats, still mystified.  
  
"No, you would take him to Assistant Director Skinner." I glance at the photograph of Skinner again, with a meaningful expression this time. Alex's eyes follow mine, and he frowns.  
  
"Skinner," he says, with an uncertain shrug.  
  
"And you would have to be very careful not to be noticed or your boss would find out, and I can predict that Charles would be most annoyed with whoever spirits his son away from under his nose."  
  
"He sure as hell would." Alex's eyes narrow. "It's a risk that not everybody is prepared to take," he murmurs.  
  
"That's right. It takes a special person to carry out such a bold plan, but that person would be assured of the discretion of any accomplices he might have, as long as he is quick, and efficient, and leaves no clues." He is quiet, thinking about that for some time, his eyes never leaving mine. He is trying to figure out where I'm coming from, and why I might help him in this way, but he would never understand, even if I told him, and I could never tell him.  
  
"I see." Alex nods. "May I ask why?"  
  
"No." I smile at him pleasantly. "You may not. So, my dear boy, you wanted to use the Recreation Room?"  
  
He frowns, confused by the rapid change of subject. "Yes, sir," he murmurs.  
  
"Well, that particular room has no occupant at the moment. However…if you would care to return in a few hours…well, you never know, you might be in luck."  
  
I leave the sentence hanging, and he nods, uncertainly. I dismiss him with a wave of my hand and then stare into the fire. Fire. Does Mulder feel the same way about fire as I do about leaving my house, and being out in the big, wide world? The sky seems so far away, and the ground so unsteady when I go outside. Does fire make his heart pound inside his breast? Does it send him half out of his mind with panic? Finding out whether this would break him is such a delicious thought...and yet, forever not knowing, forever having the fantasy of it, rather than the empty reality...is that not more enticing? Do I really want that boy broken? Is he right? Would the challenge of knowing he is always there, somewhere in the world, always teetering on the brink I took him to...is that more delicious?  
  
Would Mr. Skinner appreciate the sacrifice of the one who gave up this rare treasure so that he could benefit, I wonder? Does Mr. Skinner have any idea how to take care of this treasure? Mulder will need considerable care, but he's so ripe now, like a horse about to be broken to a rider, any rider. All he needs is the right hand on the rein, and he'll be their faithful steed for life. Does Mr. Skinner have the power and strength to keep such an exotic, highly-strung animal?  
  
I get up, and wander downstairs. Mulder moves his head and looks at me as I enter the Delivery Room, his eyes wide with panic. His body is soaked with sweat, not all of it caused by the heat of the flames, I think.  
  
"Larry?" he says, sounding for all the world like a lost, frightened child, desperate for reassurance.  
  
"It's all right, darling." I go to him, and stare down into those scared, hazel eyes.  
  
"Are you going to burn me, Larry?" he whispers, shuddering as he says the words. "Are you going to put me into the flames?"  
  
"Not if you're good," I soothe him. "I'm going to take you upstairs, my darling, and I'm going to make love to you. Do you understand?" He closes his eyes, and swallows, then nods. "All I ask is that you respond, just this once. I won't tie you, or beat you any more. I just want you to respond as a lover would. You can even imagine I'm Walter if you like; you can pretend I'm your young lawyer - or maybe your boss, the older Walter, if you prefer, but I want you to give the best performance of your life. Do that, and I won't burn you." He takes a deep breath, his eyes flicker over the braziers, and then he nods. "Good boy."  
  
I untie him, attach his wrist cuffs to his belt, blindfold him, and then walk him back upstairs. When he's safely ensconced in my bedroom, I remove every single restraint and he rubs his wrists wonderingly. Much to his surprise, I send the dutymen away, to stand on the other side of the door, so that Mulder and I are alone in the room. Then I turn the lights down low, and settle on the bed beside him. He could hurt me I suppose, but he's weak from his whipping and I don't think he will in any case. I lie on the bed, look deep into his eyes, and run my hand over his lovely, tear-stained cheeks.  
  
"You never looked more beautiful," I whisper.  
  
"With all due respect, Larry, you have a weird definition of beauty," he comments, in those wonderful, ironic tones that make me laugh. He's looking down ruefully, on his battered body, covered in welts, with little splashes of blood here and there. I can't help smiling. He has no idea how much the sight of his suffering turns me on. I always said that nobody suffered quite like him. He imbues it with such grace, and sublime loveliness. I lean forward to claim a kiss from his divine lips. They open beneath me, and I push my tongue into him. He is still for a moment, and then responds, his mouth opening wider, his tongue clashing eagerly with my own.  
  
"My darling. My lovely boy," I murmur when we part. "I want to make love to you. I want you to be aroused, and to come. I want to taste you." One last time. I want to make love to an unbroken Fox William Mulder, and have him respond. I want to know what that is like. I want to arouse him, to come in his ass, our bodies merged, as one, and I want to watch him throw back his head and arch his body as he takes his own climax. I want to see the sexual being I have worked so hard to unleash. I want to know he's been released from his inhibitions before I set him on the next little journey he must take.  
  
I wrap my arms around him and draw him close, kiss his face, and then trail my lips down his body. I take a nipple in my mouth, and suck on it gently, and he murmurs something, his body twisting in pleasure. He opens his legs as my mouth reaches his groin, and thrusts his hips at me, so I take his cock into my mouth, and feel it grow hard under my caress. He writhes for me, and my heart is full of love as I gaze down on him. Uninhibited, free of his restraints, he is truly beautiful. I lick one of his welts and he shivers, clutching me.  
  
"Undress me," I whisper, and he smiles, and reaches out those long, expressive fingers to untie my cravat and then unbutton my shirt. He takes his time, stealing little kisses as he works, and finally smoothes the fabric away from my shoulder and nuzzles at my chest. "Darling boy." I kneel on the bed and he rises up to take each of my nipples in his mouth in turn, raising them to delicious points of sensation. He gently slides my cravat away from my opened shirt, pausing to steal a kiss from my lips as he does so. His hazel eyes are burning with passion, and arousal and it is a slow, dreamy love making. He undresses me as if he is unwrapping a present, taking his time, undoing me as surely as he undoes my clothes. I am lost in him. He is so exquisitely tender, so loving. His fingertips arouse me to the most intense heat of passion as he removes my pants, and I find myself naked next to him. Two bodies, naked together, no cuffs or chains between us, no clothing. It's just the two of us – two people in love. He holds me in those strong arms of his, and kisses, and sucks, and licks for all he is worth. He can arouse with a flick of his tongue, or a knowing wink of his eye. Ah, I was right all along. Inside he is innately sexual. He is everything he never dreamed he could be. His cock is hard, weeping, as our bodies rise and fall against each other, entwined in our dance of erotic delight, rubbing, and kissing, and devouring each other. He is so good. Finally, he lies down on his back, puts his legs on my shoulders, and guides my cock into his body. I glide deep inside him, and he gasps, putting his head back, alive and vibrant under my caress. Our eyes meet, and remain locked together as we consummate our love, once and for all. I grasp his cock, and pump it in time to my thrusts, and then we are both coming, over and over again. Oh what a moment! What a sweet love this is! My beautiful boy is so perfect in my arms, and his lovemaking is more intimate, more truly a joining of two souls than I have ever known. I flop down on top of his warm, sweaty, naked body, and he smiles, and wraps his arms around me, nuzzling at my hair. He's holding me! As lovers do… truly lovers, truly joined. I love him so much that it hurts.  
  
"Was that good, Larry? Did I do what you wanted?" he asks sweetly.  
  
"Yes, my love. That was very good." I withdraw slowly, and lie resting in his strong arms for what feels like an eternity. There can be no better feeling than this. He has given me all I have ever wanted. He strokes my back, and whispers to me in the dark.  
  
"Did that help you forget, Larry? I hope so. I hope that was good. I hope you won't send me into the fire. Please don't do that, Larry. Please."  
  
My poor Mulder! That someone so complex could be felled, in the end, by something as simple as fire. As I look into his eyes I know that we understand each other. He has seen my weakness, and I his. We are cleaved from the same flesh, he and I. We have the same kind of spirit. We are both smarter than our peers, and both of us have survived their ridicule. We are both different from other people. We are always misunderstood, and we both struggle to keep ourselves out of the fire, one way or another. Ah, but the boy has played a clever game. I knew he would be a challenge, and so it has proved. I think that my final decision has somehow been inevitable; from the moment Charles first agreed to give me this lovely, untamed creature, to this moment, when I finally choose his fate. Wild animals shouldn't be kept confined; they are only beautiful if they are allowed to roam free. Lock them up and they lose their mystery, and their exotic appeal. My Mulder, with his expressive, almost golden eyes, and his erotic suffering, could never really, truly be mine, even if I broke him. It's a sad truth, but one that this old man must accept.  
  
I pull on my robe, and call the dutymen into the room.  
  
"Please, Larry," he says, because it is his last chance to evade the fire, and he knows that. "Please don't send me into the flames."  
  
"I won't, my love." I glance at the dutymen. "Take him to the Recreation Room," I tell them.  
  
"NO!" Mulder cries out, and struggles, but I turn my back on him. I can hear him yelling at me as they drag him away, screaming his head off, and calling me every vile name under the sun. It doesn't matter. When he's gone, I feel as if I've been punched in the gut. I sit down on the bed, take the crumpled, sex-stained sheets in my hand, and sniff them.  
  
That's when the tears begin to fall.  
  
  
*****  
  
He was back in a nightmare. Mulder fought as they tied him down, blindfolded him, gagged him with that appalling, intrusive, choking gag, and spread his legs. He struggled as they strapped him into place, open, and exposed, and then he slumped as they left him, alone in the dark once more. He knew what happened in this room, knew the faceless demons that would rise up to slay him in the silence of his own thoughts. Why hadn't Laurence burned him as he had threatened? Why had he brought him back here, to this only marginally lesser of two evils? What had he done to deserve this? Hadn't he tried? Mulder shuddered as he remembered caressing emaciated flesh, making love to the monster, inviting him inside his own body in a bid to save himself. Maybe this was it. Maybe this would be enough to finally finish him. He was bruised, beaten, and abused. He had nothing left, not even the possibility of escape. Had Laurence ordered him to be brought here as an object lesson? To end up in the one place that he had so recently hoped to be brought to, in order to escape, yet knowing that escape would not be forthcoming? Was that it? If so, Mulder had to admit that it was effective. He was at the end of his endurance. In fact, he was surprised that he was still sane. He had absolutely nothing left inside. If the men came now, the faceless men, and raped him, as they had before, then he wasn't even sure that he cared any more. Maybe this was what Laurence meant by breaking him. He closed his eyes, and lay there, like a piece of meat on a slab, and allowed the darkness to claim him.  
  
He wasn't sure how many hours passed, but suddenly he heard a movement in the room. His buttocks tightened involuntarily, as he waited for what he knew would happen next. He felt a hand on his wrist, surprising him, and then felt the cool caress of metal against his flesh, surprising him even more. The knife sliced through the plastic cuffs, freeing his hands, then made equally short work of his gag and blindfold. He looked around, confused.  
  
"Wha...?"  
  
"Shut up." A hand was pressed over his mouth. Krycek? His weary mind struggled to make sense of what he was seeing. Krycek knifed through the bonds around his torso and legs, and then pulled him to his feet. Mulder wobbled, like a new born foal.  
  
"Krycek?" he whispered again, disbelievingly. "He knows," he hissed urgently. "You'll be caught."  
  
"No." Krycek pulled Mulder towards the door, and he went, staggering. "You look like shit," Krycek commented, pausing at the door, opening it a fraction, and glancing out.  
  
"Strange. That's also how I feel," Mulder snapped. "There are guards outside. How the hell did you get in?" His voice trailed off as he saw the slumped bodies of two dutymen outside the door. "What the…?"  
  
"Drugged," Krycek said, in a strange voice. "Here." He pulled the pants off one of the dutymen, and handed them to Mulder. "Hurry."  
  
"How will we get out?" Mulder whispered, trying to make sense of all this. He stared dumbly at the pants, unsure whether he remembered how to pull the garment on. "Surely the place will be crawling with dutymen?"  
  
"I didn't see any on my way here." Krycek shrugged. "Maybe they're all...busy." His mouth twisted into a strained smile. Mulder managed to put his legs into the pants, and did his best to fasten the fabric with trembling fingers. His wrists were bruised from the cuffs, and he hurt so much he didn't think he could stand for long.  
  
"How far to the parking garage? I'm not…in very good shape," he admitted, with a rueful glance down at his scarred body.  
  
"I can see that. It isn't far." A noise alerted Krycek. "We don't have any more time. Forget the sweater - follow me." He grabbed Mulder's arm, and pulled him along the hallway. Mulder went, still bare-chested. He could have sworn that they ran forever. It felt as if his whole life was that journey, down those many hallways, and flights of stairs. He hurt so much that each step felt like a marathon, and only Krycek's fingers, digging into his arm, kept him upright. He lost track of their route, lost track of everything save the need to put one bare foot in front of the other. He got slower, and slower, until in the end Krycek had to sling one of his arms over his own shoulder and run with him down the final flight of stairs and out into a parking garage. Mulder was faint with exhaustion and pain by the time they got to the car. Krycek opened the back seat, and threw him in. Mulder lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness.  
  
"Hurry," he kept saying, over and over again. He could see Laurence in his mind's eye, chasing after them, opening the car door and hauling him out, so close to freedom. Or maybe this was the way Laurence intended to break him. That thought froze his heart, and he sat up, wild eyed and incoherent.  
  
"Are you working for him?" he hissed at Krycek. "Is that what this is? You take me to the brink of freedom and then he pulls me back in again, just when I think I'm safe?"  
  
"Shut the fuck up, Mulder, and lie down. I need to drive you past the guard at the entrance. There's a blanket in the back. Cover yourself, and stay still."  
  
Mulder did as he was told, in a haze of uncertainty. He felt the car start to move, and shuddered as they drove slowly through the garage. Laurence was going to find him. Laurence was going to take him back, and keep him as a prisoner forever. There was no such thing as freedom. He couldn't even remember what it felt like. The car stopped, and he held his breath. He heard Krycek talking to someone, felt a wave of cold air waft through the open window, and then they were driving again. Still he couldn't breathe. He felt himself drift off into space. This was where it was going to end. This was how he was going to end. A sharp slap across the face woke him up.  
"Mulder, for fuck's sake, breathe. You're going blue. I didn't risk my ass getting you out of there just to have you fucking die on me." He took a gasping gulp of air, and sat up, gazing around blearily. They were parked at the side of the road, and Krycek was leaning over, staring at him.  
  
"What now? You just push me out of the car to fend for myself?" he asked.  
  
"No, you stupid bastard. If I did that they'd find you and drag you back. I'm taking you somewhere safe. Now lie down and shut up. We have a long drive ahead of us."  
  
Krycek turned around and started to drive. Mulder pulled the blanket up around his body, and curled into the fetal position. He didn't know where he was going, and he didn't care. He hurt so much that he didn't think he'd ever care again. With freedom came anti-climax. With freedom he lost all the strength of will he had been relying on just to survive. The immediate danger had gone. Now he was just left with the nightmare of picking up the pieces of his shattered psyche. Maybe it would have been better if he'd stayed with Laurence, in the safety of the salon. At least Laurence had understood him.  
  
"Get out."  
  
"What?" Mulder looked around, confused out of his troubled slumber. They were in an underground parking garage. In the dark, it looked suspiciously like the one they had just left. Had it all been a ruse? Had Krycek just driven him around for hours, and then brought him back here in order to help Laurence break him?  
  
"We're here. Now get out. I need to be back in New York by morning or they'll know it was me."  
  
"You're going back?" Mulder was horrified.  
  
"Yes. Now get out. Hurry. I don't have much time."  
  
"You can't go back." Mulder grabbed Krycek's arm. "Laurence knows about you. He knew you were going to try and help me escape. I don't understand how...if he knew..."  
  
"Wise up, Mulder." Krycek rolled his eyes. "He does know. The old bastard is letting you go."  
  
"He...?" Mulder couldn't make sense of that statement. He shook his head, vigorously. "If you go back...if they find out…"  
  
"They won't find out. I have his word on that." Krycek shrugged. "Now get the fuck out of here before I change my mind and drag you back to the crazy old monster." He reached past Mulder, and opened the car door.  
  
"You can't go back to them," Mulder protested. "I don't understand how you can go back to them."  
  
"No you don't fucking understand!" Krycek roared. "You never fucking understand anything, Mulder. We didn't all grow up in a nice safe town, with nice safe people around. I belong with them. That's my world. Now get the fuck out of this car."  
  
Krycek grabbed his arm, and shoved him out of the car. Mulder's feet tangled in the blanket, and he fell onto the concrete floor of the garage, the blanket wrapped around the lower half of his body. Krycek slammed the door shut, and reversed out of the garage with a screech of tires. Mulder watched the tail lights fade from view, losing consciousness again as they went. The concrete was cold against his hot, torn flesh. He felt so tired. He placed his head on the floor, and gave into oblivion.  
  
He thought it was a dream. He saw a red shirt, and then his lover was there, looming over him.  
  
"Walter...I thought you'd gone," he muttered in surprise. It had been so long since he had last seen his lover that he just lay there, staring, trying to make sense of his lover's return. "I thought I drove you away when I betrayed you. I'm sorry," he whispered. He heard a muffled exclamation. Big, strong arms grabbed him, held his face, and he tried to focus on his lover's visage but it was hazy, and indistinct.  
  
"Christ, Mulder…oh Christ, what have they done to you?" Gentle, blunt fingertips traced lines on his face. "Hold still, Mulder. I'm going to…" Someone was peeling back his blanket, looking at the marks all over his blood-streaked body. "Oh Christ." His vision cleared, and he saw a look of total horror in a pair of dark eyes. His own beaten, abused body, and hollow, lifeless face were reflected back at him through a pair of glasses. He reached out to touch the wirerims, wonderingly.  
  
"I didn't think you wore these back then," he murmured. "Only now. Vain, you said."  
  
"You aren't making any sense. Hold on. We need to get you to the hospital. Hold on…" He felt himself being lifted.  
  
"I'm too heavy," he protested, struggling.  
  
"No you're not. Lie still. You're safe," his lover said. "I've got you. You're safe."  
  
*****  
  
  
The place seems so lonely without him. I visit all the rooms that he graced with his presence. The salon. I sit in his armchair, and gaze into the fire. The Recreation Room, where there are only the sliced remains of his cuffs to remind me that he was here. The dutymen guarding Mulder last night have been punished; it was a pleasure.  
  
I wander down to the Delivery Room. This was the room where he suffered so much, and so beautifully. I can still smell his sweat, and fear. I trace my finger, nostalgically, over the bar where he so recently hung. Ah, but this is such a delicious torment. He knew it would be. He knew it would be sweeter to give him up than to break him, and it is! It is! It hurts, but it's a pain that reminds me I'm alive. It isn't the empty boredom of having yet another fully broken recruit kneeling by my side. So, we'll never know whether I could have taken him over the edge. I like to think that I could. It's a stalemate. Maybe, in the end, that's the best outcome I could hope for.  
  
I trail listlessly into the storeroom, and find the bag containing his belongings, lying on a shelf, packaged up neatly, as I left it. Purely to torment myself even more, I open it, pull out his shirt, and bury my face in it, inhaling his beautiful, delicious, earthy and yet exotic scent. I'm going to miss him so much! I can hardly believe the depths of my emotions right now. I am tingling with them and it's the most heady sensation I've ever felt in my life. I smudge a tear or two on his shirt, and then replace it in its packaging and tuck it under one of my arms. I have a feeling that I will be burying my face in his clothing a good many times in the coming weeks.  
  
Finally, I wander back up to the salon. It's been twelve hours since he left, and I have a phone call to make.  
  
Charles sounds peeved - understandably so.  
  
"Can't we find him again? Bring him back?" he snaps.  
  
"I'm afraid not." I finger Mulder's whip, lost in memories. "It's too late. Once the FBI gets their hands on him all my good work will be ruined. Even apart from that, he knows it was us. Now, I'm sure that with your network of people in high places there's no chance that either of us will be brought to justice." He grunts, acknowledging the truth of that statement, "But all the same. They might have more of an idea of where to look for him if we took him again. No, I'm afraid he's lost to us. It's such a pity. I was so close."  
  
"Damn!" Charles snaps, which is a strong expression indeed from such a restrained man. "Who was responsible?" He asks.  
  
I hesitate, and then smile. If I can't have my one true love, then at least I can have the next best thing. "Why don't you come over, and we'll talk about it," I murmur. "And bring your assistant with you."  
  
They arrive within the hour. Charles looks faded, as if the life has gone out of him. I think that losing Mulder at this stage was worse than the boy dying. As for Alex...well, he looks a little tired. Too much night driving I think. I glance at him, and we exchange a look.  
  
"I want a full report," Charles fumes, as I pour a glass of brandy, and a glass of water. I hand Charles the brandy, and Alex holds out his hand for the water.  
  
"It's not for you," I tell him, in a cold tone. His eyes widen, startled. I sit down on the couch, and settle myself easily, gesturing to Charles to take the armchair. I don't even look at Alex. My eyes are fixed on Charles as I speak.  
  
"Take your clothes off, Alex. We have work to do."  
  
"What?" He gasps.  
  
"Do it, boy. Now."  
  
"No, you can't...you promised...you fucking bastard...you..." One of my dutymen holds him down, while another forces a gag into his mouth, but he struggles and fights so much that I'm forced to call another two dutymen to help subdue him. Ah, I'd almost forgotten how delicious he is. He always fights. Such a little spitfire.  
  
"It was Alex?" Charles gazes at the scene, astonished. "Alex did this?"  
  
"I'm afraid so." I hand him a printout from one of the internal cameras. It shows Krycek helping Mulder down some stairs. "We have the whole tape if you'd like to watch it," I offer.  
  
"No," he snaps, downing his brandy in one gulp, and then getting up. "I think I've seen enough." Alex has been stripped of his clothes and is kneeling on the floor, his good arm thrust up behind his back by one of my dutymen. His prosthetic arm has been removed and is lying discarded on the floor, and a second dutyman has his hand in Alex's hair, holding him still while they put his choke chain around his neck. We discovered very early on that Alex responds particularly well to this form of restraint. Charles pauses, and gazes down at him, his eyes dark and full of anger. He has just lost his son after all, his one hope for the future, to say nothing of most probably turning the boy into an irrevocable enemy, when he had hoped so much to make him an ally, and heir.  
  
"How long can I keep him for?" I ask, taking a sip of my water.  
  
"As long as you like," Charles growls, striding towards the door. He pauses in front of the kneeling, restrained Alex as he goes to leave, and then, without warning, stubs out his cigarette on the poor pup's naked, white chest. Alex gives an inarticulate cry around the edges of his gag, and Charles continues on his way. "One more thing, Laurence," he says, as he opens the door. "Make sure that he suffers," and he exits, slamming the door shut behind him.  
  
"Oh, I will," I murmur, getting up, and going to crouch down in front of my beautiful, maimed boy. I lift Alex's pretty head, and gaze into his rebellious, betrayed green eyes, with a smile of utter, delicious, anticipatory intent. He shivers, visibly, which pleases me no end. "I certainly will."  
  
  
  
*****  
  
The room drifted in and out of focus, white, and sterile. He could hear the hush-hush of voices, but didn’t have the energy to tune into what they were saying. Hush, dear boy. Hush, hush… stroke, stroke…His body was wrapped in chains, tied down…no, bandages…they were bandages. Tube in one of his arms, but he couldn’t move…why couldn’t he move?  
  
"It’s okay, you’ve been sedated," someone said and he cried out silently inside. Trapped inside his mind, unable to move, unable to breathe, tied to that table, his legs over his head, passing in and out of consciousness…he could feel his body convulsing, struggling against the sedation, and hands were pushing him back down. "Hush," someone said. Hush, hush…stroke, stroke.  
  
"Mulder." A shadow loomed over him, and he shrank back into the pillows to evade it. "Christ, he flinches away every time I go near him."  
  
"Give him time." Scully’s voice. A part of him curled up and died inside, knowing that she was here, looking at him, stripped of his dignity as he was. He caught a glimpse of red hair, and a pale, strained face. A larger body came into focus. Skinner. He was dressed in brown jeans, and a sloppy, navy blue sweatshirt. There was a baseball cap on his head. He looked so different that Mulder didn’t even know who he was for a moment.  
  
"Thought you were wearing a red shirt," Mulder croaked.  
  
Skinner frowned, his eyes dark and concerned behind the wirerims. "Do you recognize me now?" He asked, coming over, and putting a hand on Mulder’s arm. Mulder flinched. He couldn’t help it, and he didn’t care, even when he saw the flash of pain in the other man’s eyes. For a big man Skinner looked curiously fragile, as if breaking under the weight of some dark knowledge. Mulder felt his throat constricting, and a wave of anger coursing through him: they knew. They both knew. He saw the truth in the desperate pity of Scully’s blue eyes and the confused horror of Skinner’s brown ones. They knew that he’d been held down and raped, knew that he had been bound with cuffs that had left his wrists bruised and chafed, knew that he had been whipped repeatedly, and he hated them for knowing.  
  
"Get out of here. Both of you," Mulder snapped, anger paralyzing him. "What am I? Some kind of fucking circus freak?" His body didn’t feel real. He looked down on it wondering if it even belonged to him. His legs and arms were so heavy they were weighing him down. He imagined the doctor explaining to them that he had been raped, could almost feel that by virtue of that clinical explanation he had become the ‘other’ again, only a different kind of ‘other’ this time. Still on the outside, an object of pity, someone to be tiptoed around, somebody damaged, tainted even. Too tired to hurt any more than he already did, he closed his eyes once again, curled his body into the smallest ball he could manage and resolutely refused to say another word.  
  
He wasn’t sure how long he stayed in the hospital. Like Laurence’s salon, there was neither day nor night. Time had no meaning. There had been a barrage of tests for sexually transmitted diseases, including HIV, which he submitted to without comment, not caring what the results would be. His body was slow, and shaky, and he had ceased to recognize it as his own. No, he refused to recognize it, because if he did, then he would have to acknowledge what had been done to him, and he couldn't do that right now; he didn't have the strength. He avoided every single mirror, closing his eyes when he was taken to the bathroom to pee or shower, so that he wouldn’t see himself.  
  
There were questions, including those asked by a pretty hospital psychiatrist in gentle, insistent tones, but he answered none of them. Where would he begin? In the salon he had been forced to answer questions just to evade pain, or to earn something to eat, or to drink. Here, stripped of clothing, and freedom, just as he had been during his captivity, he did at least have the option not to speak. It was the only independence he had and he clung to it, as if his whole self was invested in it – or what was left of his self.  
  
On the day he was released from the hospital Skinner brought him a pair of boxers, and some sweats.  
  
"Can I at least have some privacy to dress?" Mulder asked, talking to his boss for the first time in days.  
  
"I could turn my back," Skinner suggested, still in that same gentle tone he had used throughout the younger man's stay here, still treating Mulder as if he would break; hesitant, and unsure. Where had the boss gone, Mulder wondered? He didn't want to be confused right now, between the concerned ex-lover, and the matter-of-fact boss. He didn't have the strength to deal with that duality right now.  
  
"But you won’t leave me on my own?" Mulder swung his legs out of the bed, shakily. Skinner shook his head. "I see." Loss of dignity, loss of independence, loss of control of this weak, useless body; he still hadn’t woken up from the nightmare. He dressed slowly, his limbs protesting, his fingers shaking. Skinner had thought to bring in clothes that were easily pulled on, but even so it was a long, painstaking process. He knew Skinner would have helped if he had asked, but he also knew that he would never ask. "Are you coming home with me as well?" Mulder asked, sinking his feet into his sneakers. He didn't have the energy to kneel and tie the laces so he just left them.  
  
"You aren’t going home," Skinner said softly. "Remember, we talked about this?" Hush, hush; stroke, stroke. He remembered them talking about it. He couldn’t remember giving his consent. He had never given his consent…although there had been that one time, on the side of the Jacuzzi, his ankles trailing in warm water, and then that final coupling, when he had willingly sold his love in exchange for his soul…thin arms wrapped around his body, and his own cock, hard, responsive…consent. He wasn’t sure what consent was any more.  
  
"I want to go home." Mulder clenched his fists, fighting his own rising anger.  
  
"Look at you, Mulder. You can barely get dressed. You can’t take care of yourself right now," Skinner pointed out in a calm, rational, utterly reasonable tone that infuriated Mulder beyond endurance. "That’s fine – you’ve been through a lot. You need time to recover."  
  
"You son of a bitch. Where am I going then? Into a nursing home?" Mulder had a vivid recollection of his grandmother dying in a nursing home. He remembered green walls, and that smell of imminent death as well as the absence of sunlight. Hush, hush; stroke, stroke, pale flesh, untouched by sunlight.  
  
"No, you’re coming home with me," Skinner said softly. Mulder narrowed his eyes. "We talked about it, remember? Scully wanted you to go back to her place, but…well, you’re a big guy, and you might need more physical help than she can provide. She’s going to visit, bring the groceries, that kind of thing. We did talk about it." Skinner shrugged.  
  
"But I didn’t agree." Mulder didn’t remember agreeing, but then again his consent wasn’t strictly speaking necessary. The dutymen knew that. They’re allowed to have fun with you, Laurence had said. "Don't I have a say in any of this?"  
  
"Mulder, you have an appointment to see a psychiatrist again in a few days. Let’s wait and see what happens then."  
  
"I see, and until than you’re on, what? Suicide watch?"  
  
He could tell by the expression in Skinner’s eyes that he was right.  
  
"You’ve been through a lot, Mulder," Skinner repeated softly.  
  
"You don’t know anything," Mulder replied, in a voice tight with angry pain. "You don’t know anything about it. You don’t have a fucking clue." He saw himself reflected in Skinner’s eyes, and took a sharp intake of breath. Damn, he could avoid mirrors but he couldn’t avoid people’s eyes. He had an image of himself on his knees, sucking someone’s cock, and Skinner was watching, watching, watching - watching with the very same eyes that now showed only shocked pity, eyes that a long time ago used to look at him with love. Skinner had seen, Skinner knew. He saw himself in his mind’s eye, tied down, screaming in pain, desperate for it to stop, and heard himself yelling "Do it to Walter!"  
  
"I just want you to know," he said, needing to wound, wanting more than anything else to hurt this man, who had witnessed him in the worst of his degradation, and who had listened to the word ‘rape’ being uttered in a doctor’s dry tones, but who could not possibly understand what that word really meant. "That I sold you. I sold you out, and I’d fucking do it again."  
  
There was silence between them.  
  
"Do you want to talk about that? I don’t understand what you’re telling me," Skinner said carefully.  
  
"No. I. Don’t. Want. To. Fucking. Talk." Mulder said, in hard, staccato tones. He didn’t have to consent to talk. That was the one thing they couldn't make him do. And he didn't need their food. If they stopped feeding him then he'd just die, but he wouldn't talk. He also didn't need the warmth of the fire. If they tried to lure him there, he'd just refuse. This time he'd refuse, because last time he had been weak, but he wasn't going to be weak again, wasn't going to give in to it again. Hush, hush; stroke stroke…Tears pricked the back of his eyes, and, with a great act of will, he blinked them away.  
  
"Come on, Mulder. Let’s go home," Skinner said gently.  
  
Skinner’s apartment was more practical than his own, he’d give it that much. There was a lot more space for a start. Then again, it always had been Walter’s apartment where they hung out, Walter’s apartment in a different town into which, over a period of a few weeks many years ago, he’d moved several changes of clothes and more than a few books, and later moved them out again. And now he was moving back. Temporarily. Because his boss and his partner didn’t trust him not to kill himself. His boss, and one time lover, showed him around, pointed out the bathroom, and kitchen, and slung his bag of clothing into the spare room.  
  
"No TV?" Mulder raised an eyebrow.  
  
"You can watch it downstairs. You don’t need to stay in bed. You just need to rest," Skinner told him, his eyes also adding that he didn’t want Mulder spending too much time alone, brooding, in his room, where Skinner couldn’t keep an eye on him.  
  
"You can't watch me every hour of the day," he said. "What are you going to do? Sleep outside my door like a fucking guard dog?"  
  
"If need be." Skinner smiled, trying to make a joke of it. His relentless gentleness in the face of Mulder’s barbs was beginning to grate on the younger man’s nerves.  
  
"What about your job?" Mulder snarled. "What about your important fucking career, Skinner?"  
  
Skinner ran a weary hand over his eyes, and shook his head. "I’m on special leave. Have been ever since you were abducted."  
  
"What?" Mulder paused in the action of opening his bag, and glanced around, shocked, for a moment, out of his own misery. "Special leave? Why? Are you ill?"  
  
"No - I was looking for you." Skinner leaned back against the doorframe, and wrapped his arms around his body, hugging himself. It wasn’t a gesture that Mulder could ever recall seeing his boss perform before, but he dimly remembered his lover standing like that once, years ago, after he had woken up screaming from a nightmare that he had refused to ever talk about. "Scully and I discussed it. We tried to pursue the investigation into your disappearance within the Bureau but just kept coming up against red tape. It seemed that everywhere we turned our attempts were hampered." Mulder straightened, swallowing hard. This information didn’t surprise him. "In the end, we decided we’d have more luck pursuing the investigation…outside the law."  
  
"Outside…?" Mulder looked startled.  
  
"This time the law wasn’t good enough." Skinner shrugged. "Scully would have given up her career for you – she’d have been the one to work on the outside, but I strong-armed her into letting me do it." He gave a grim smile, and Mulder guessed that hadn’t been easy. "I had a pile of leave stacked up – I’m almost as bad as you are about taking vacation." Mulder remembered a mall, and a book. What had happened to that book he had bought, he wondered, smelling chloroform as they pressed a wad of cloth over his face. "I asked to take it all in one gulp," Skinner was saying. "They weren’t happy, but…" Skinner raised his hands in a gesture of supreme indifference. "I told them it was that or my resignation, and if they chose the latter then they might find I had some interesting things to tell the media."  
  
"They'd have crucified you for that." Mulder stood quite still, gazing at this man, who had once been his lover, a man he had once known so well, but who he had long since been more accustomed to responding to as boss, rather than lover.  
  
"Yeah. Well." Skinner shrugged.  
  
"What about your career?"  
  
Skinner laughed. He actually laughed out loud, a bitter, ironic sound. "What career? I blew that the first time I took on the big boys over one of your cases, and you know what? I don’t care. It was never about success at any price. Did I ever give you that impression?"  
  
The past stood between them. They were teetering on the brink of acknowledging a relationship that they had never spoken about since it had ended, so many years ago. In all their time working together, Mulder had never once allowed Skinner to discuss their relationship, and Skinner, despite one small attempt, had been happy to collude in that silence. There were many things Mulder wanted to ask, and equally as many that he wanted to say, but the silence they had built up for over 18 years was too profound for him to breach it. So he merely shrugged, and turned back to his bag. He heard Skinner sigh behind him, and then heard the other man turn to go.  
  
"I’ll be downstairs," Skinner said softly.  
  
Mulder steeled himself to go and sit in polite silence with a man with whom he had once spent so much easy, intimate time. He paused at the top of the stairs, unable to face the ordeal of walking down them, and went along to the bathroom instead, buying time. He filled a basin with cold water, then splashed it on his face. Looking up, he caught sight of himself in the mirror, by mistake. He had been avoiding mirrors. Mirrors held memories, locked in glass; memories of Laurence’s bedroom, memories of watching himself being beaten in that dark room in the basement. Strange how you always end up in the basement, wherever you go. Maybe you belong in the dark, away from the light, hidden away from the rest of the world. His own pale flesh became superimposed with Laurence’s white skin, pallid from being so long hidden away from the sun. Mulder shuddered. Where did he end, and Laurence begin? He saw their bodies entwined. Making love, Laurence had called it. Intimacy. Mulder splashed the cold water on his face, trying to wash Laurence’s flesh away from his own, to achieve separation. It felt good. He repeated the motion, reveling in the sharp shock of cold liquid splashing against his skin. Sensation, any sensation other than his own pain was what he needed now. The water was cleansing. He felt a need to be immersed in it, completely and utterly, so that it was over his head, over his face, washing away the hurt, and degradation, washing away the scent of lavender, the memory of stiff lacquered hair under his fingers, and cool lizard’s skin, caressing his own.  
  
He tore off his clothes, and got into the shower, turning it on full blast, painfully cold. The shock of the cold was what he needed. He didn’t want comfort. He didn’t want people’s sympathy, didn’t want them tiptoeing around, scared of saying or doing the wrong thing; he wanted distraction. He grabbed some soap and began to wash. He was tired, exhausted from his frenzied undressing, but the water made him feel alive, and his skin began to zing. He put his head back under the flow, and enjoyed the way the tiny pinpricks of water stung his flesh. He tried turning the control even further, wanting that stream of water to be even harsher, but it was turned as far as it would go. He let the cold seep into his flesh, and then even deeper, into the very marrow of his bones. He needed to go back in time, to a few weeks ago, before any of this had ever happened. What had his life been back then? He could barely remember. He didn’t know what he was going to do with himself now. Everything had changed, everything was different, nothing was the same, and he had gone through more than any man could and hope to stay sane. He had been right when he had said to Laurence that what had happened in his childhood had broken him in some way. He had never been the same after that, and he would never be the same after this.  
  
A large arm came into view, and it was followed by an equally large body, which waded, fully clothed, into the shower, and pulled him out bodily. A large towel was slung around his shoulders, and held closed under his chin, as if he were a small child.  
  
"I heard the shower…I had no idea you were freezing yourself to death. It’s been half an hour, Mulder. Christ, you’re blue."  
  
He flinched away from the urgent tones, waiting for the sting of the whip against his damp flesh. It was often like this. First they hosed him down, then they beat him on his wet skin. The wetness made the whip hurt even more, made him scream until he was hoarse and voiceless. He didn’t want to lose his voice again. Something was missing though. Usually before they hosed him down, they put their cocks in his mouth and fucked his head back against the wall. Maybe that was why they were angry with him. Hush, hush; stroke, stroke. They were angry because he hadn’t opened his mouth, and allowed them to force themselves between his lips. He sank to his knees, blindly fumbling at the pants in front of him. If he sucked them well enough then maybe they wouldn’t whip him.  
  
"What are you doing? Mulder, stop…Mulder." He was lifted up, and he flinched away; they were going to tie him to the post now, and whip him… "Mulder!" He felt firm fingers on his chin, forcing him to look into uncomprehending, dark eyes.  
  
"Sorry…" He mumbled, confused. "Sorry, sorry, sorry." Hush, hush; stroke, stroke…  
  
"It’s okay. You’re out of it. Hold on, we need to warm you up." Skinner turned the shower on again – warm this time, and swung Mulder back into it, holding him there. The warmth slowly flooded back into Mulder’s veins, and with it came the loss of the oblivion he had sought, and knowledge that he had just done something stupid; something inappropriate, and embarrassing.  
  
"Fuck you," he growled, his distress and confusion manifesting as anger as he tried to block out the memory of what had just happened. "Can’t I even take a fucking shower without being stared at, and prodded like an animal?"  
  
"You were freezing to death," Skinner said carefully, his eyes radiating both pity and horror at what his agent had become. "Your body can’t take this kind of stress right now." Skinner looked at him, and Mulder dropped his own eyes. Making eye contact felt dangerous, and besides, he didn’t want to see the revulsion in the other man’s eyes. He knew how he looked. He was so thin that his ribs stuck out, and his whipped flesh was turning every shade from purple to yellow. He knew he looked a mess, and he didn’t care. He closed his eyes, and allowed Skinner to haul him out of the shower, rub him dry again, and envelop him in a massive robe. He couldn’t make the short walk down the hallway back to his bedroom. He willed his legs to walk, but they wouldn’t. They wobbled, as if he was drunk, and he found himself sinking down to the floor. Skinner picked him up, draped Mulder’s arm over his shoulders, and staggered along to the spare bedroom with his burden. He helped Mulder into the bed, and then stood there, breathing heavily.  
  
"It’s all right. I know you wanted to feel clean," he said, looking profoundly uncomfortable. Mulder almost laughed. Skinner wasn’t anyone’s idea of rape counselor…and yet, he had to admit that despite the big man’s gruff persona, he had often seen Skinner talking in low, sensitive tones to the victims of crimes. "I know all the text book stuff about it, but of course I can’t understand how it must feel." Skinner sat down on the side of the bed, and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "I just want you to know that if you do want to talk about it, then I’m here. I think talking would help. You had…some kind of episode back there, Mulder. You’re having them frequently. Now, that is something I can understand." He took another deep breath. "When I came back from ‘Nam, I had the worst case of PTSD you ever saw. My hands shook uncontrollably, and I had these flashbacks all the time. Saw myself walking into that ambush, over and over again. Saw my friends dying around me. Heard the sounds of bullets hitting flesh. I’d be doing the simplest things; making a cup of coffee, watching TV…and the memories came back as vivid as if I was there. So you see, I do understand some of what you’re going through, more than you might realize."  
  
Mulder felt light headed. Everything in the whole world was suddenly very clear, including all the things he had never understood before - especially all the things he had never understood before. Skinner hadn’t been attracted to law because he was in love with it, the way he had told Laurence. Skinner was attracted to the suffering of the victims of crime. He had read, somewhere, that people who had gone through great suffering themselves often had a huge sense of compassion for other people’s suffering. Empathy. That was the word. Empathy – he almost laughed. Laurence had suffered, both as a kid, and as an adult, trapped within his phobia. What kind of empathy had he had? And yet…hush, hush; stroke, stroke…Laurence had empathized with him. He had enjoyed comforting Mulder after causing his pain almost as much as he appeared to enjoy inflicting that pain. It was as if he needed to cause the pain in order to provide a comfort that he had never had.  
  
"If you want to talk," Skinner said again.  
  
"Why would I want to talk?" Mulder clenched his fists, fighting the desire to let go and hit out. He was aware of a need to hurt Skinner in some way, to cause the other man the same kind of pain that he was feeling right now.  
  
"I’ll bring you some food, and then you can go to sleep." Skinner suggested.  
  
"If I want to fucking sleep," Mulder growled. "If. I. Want. I can do what I fucking want."  
  
"Okay. Okay." Skinner held up his hands in a gesture of contrition, and Mulder felt his anger die, leaving only a sense of acute misery in its wake.  
  
Skinner returned with a bowl of soup and three thick wedges of bread. Mulder made it through half of one of the wedges of bread, and a third of the soup. He could have eaten more. He chose not to. It was one of the few things he could control in his environment right now. Skinner looked at the copious remains, and clearly considered commenting, but then thought better of it.  
  
"Do you want to stay here and sleep?" He asked. "I’ll be downstairs if you want any company."  
  
"I’ll be fine." Mulder slid down under the sheets and turned his back on the other man.  
  
He closed his eyes, and waited for the light to go out, but as soon as it had, he sat up again. He had wanted to be alone, and now that he had his solitude, he found that it disturbed him. He didn’t like the dark. It reminded him of the suffocating closeness of the blindfold. He fumbled to turn on the light beside his bed. The light banished his fears of suffocation, but the gnawing pain inside didn’t go away. He despised his own weakness, and need for comfort. Laurence had told him he was loved. It was an evil, sadistic love, but it had been so long since he had been loved in any other way – in any way at all. Hush, hush; stroke, stroke…comforting, hurting – were they also things he couldn’t tell the difference between any more? Mulder caught an unwanted glimpse of himself in the mirror across from his bed, and his heart raced faster. He had grown to loathe mirrors. Nobody should ever have to watch themselves screaming in pain, or see their own blood running down their back. He got up, found his damp bathrobe, discarded on the floor, and slung it over the mirror, then returned to bed and closed his eyes, but sleep eluded him for a long time, and when it came it was uneasy, and broken.  
  
He was woken by the smell of breakfast wafting up the stairs. He dressed himself in his sweats and walked slowly towards the smell. His physical injuries were slowly healing, but he still hurt all over, and the pain meds made him fuzzy headed and unfocused, which he hated. He needed his wits about him if he was going to stand a chance of getting out of…getting out of…He paused, clinging onto the banister for a moment to catch his breath, and then continued on downstairs.  
  
Skinner was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. He was wearing a white tee shirt and sweatpants. It was the first time Mulder had seen him in such informal clothing in such an intimate setting in years. Morning. Breakfast. Papers…it brought back old memories. He sat down, and stared at the glass of orange juice in front of him.  
  
"Are you okay?" Skinner asked.  
  
Mulder drank the juice, and nodded. "Look, you’ll go stir crazy if you stay cooped up in here with me the whole time. Why don’t you go out for a few hours?" He suggested.  
  
"Scully will come around after work. I’ll take a breather then," Skinner said. Mulder felt an unaccountable sense of anger. It didn’t matter that he’d suggested it, the fact that Skinner had agreed in some measure, the fact that he seemed to think Mulder was someone he needed a breather from…that annoyed him.  
  
"I’ve made breakfast." Skinner got a plate out of the oven, and placed it in front of his guest. Then he handed Mulder the sports section of the paper absently. Mulder took it. How easily they slipped into the routine of a relationship they hadn’t been in for years. He ate, barely tasting what was on his plate. Skinner cleared his throat.  
  
"I don’t know if you remember…I had a nightmare, a long time ago, when we were…" He shrugged. "Back then. I didn’t tell you at the time, but the nightmare was about ‘Nam. I should have told you. You were…very kind to me. I was screaming my head off, and you held me." Skinner looked awkward, but he plowed on, regardless. "I appreciated that but, uh, I think I appreciated even more the fact that you didn’t make a big deal of it in the morning."  
  
"I don’t remember it," Mulder snapped, sliding his fingers over his forehead, back and forth. He did remember it. He remembered the way his lover had shaken under his fingers, and how they had ended up making love because Walter hadn’t wanted to go back to sleep.  
  
"I wanted to say, that if the same thing happened to you I’d return the favor. Look, Mulder, I’m just very wary of your boundaries right now. I know you need to feel in control, but…" He shrugged.  
  
"Yes. In control." Mulder rubbed insistently at his forehead, trying to ease the nagging, gnawing headache that was brewing. "Like choosing what fucking breakfast I might want, and what fucking section of the newspaper I might like to read, and what fucking drink I might like to drink, and whether I fucking need Scully babysitting me while you go out and grab a few beers with your friends, and choosing whether or fucking not I want to talk about a relationship that you ended 18 years ago." Mulder paused for breath. "It was just a few months, Skinner. A few months a long time ago." What were the words he needed? The words Laurence had used? "It wasn’t a great love affair, it was just sex," he hissed. "Fucking. I was just your last piece of ass before you decided to go straight. It was just a cheap screw. Get over it."  
  
It didn’t have the desired reaction. Skinner’s eyes weren’t wounded; they were still filled with that same horrified pity that had been in them since he had picked Mulder off the floor in the parking garage.  
  
"Eat whatever you like," he said, gesturing to the kitchen cupboards. "I’ll be in the other room." He left, and instead of feeling relieved and pleased to have his solitude, Mulder experienced only an acute sense of misery at the absence of the big man's company.  
  
Mulder spent the day sleeping, reading, and watching TV. None of it seemed real. His life right now didn’t seem real. He dreaded seeing the psychiatrist. Counseling was too much like the grotesque process Laurence had put him through. Making him answer questions, asking him how he felt. He didn’t feel anything right now except weak, pathetic, dirty and…pointless. He wasn’t good for anything. He wasn’t working. He was just existing. Taking up space. He spent the evening on the couch with Scully, both of them pretending to watch the sci-fi videos she had brought round. When she tried to talk to him, he pretended to be so utterly absorbed in the appallingly corny dialogue that she shut up. He went to bed early, before Skinner got back.  
  
He slept for a while, and then felt warm arms slide around his body, holding him tight. He smiled, and sank back against them for comfort, enjoying the way those arms wrapped themselves around his body, holding him tight…too tight. The fingers were cold, and emaciated. They dug into his flesh, pushed deep into his chest, and then they wrapped themselves icily around his heart.  
  
"It’s so nice to have you back, my darling boy," a familiar voice whispered in his ear, and he sat up with a start, gasping for air. He knew it wasn’t a dream. He had heard that voice; he had heard it in this room. Laurence was coming for him. He got out of bed, and opened the drapes, noisily, looking for his torturer. He wasn’t there. Mulder’s movements became more frenzied. He opened the closet, pulled out all the contents, and then upturned the bed to see what was beneath it. Only his sneakers were there. Angry, he shoved the nightstand aside, looking for the other man, and then he heard him, entering the room. Mulder could smell Laurence, could feel his icy fingers on his shoulder. He threw himself into the gap between the nightstand and the bed. He had hidden here once before, and had been safe. He curled himself into a small ball, and buried his face in his knees.  
  
"Mulder."  
  
He made no reply. He could feel Laurence moving closer, and closer. Soon he would find him, and take him back to his room, where he would whip him over and over again for daring to…  
  
"Mulder?"  
  
Fingers touched his hair, and he jumped. "I’m sorry!" He whispered hoarsely. "I’m sorry I escaped but you don’t have to hurt me, Larry. Please don’t hurt me. I'll be good. I'll do whatever you say. I'll make you proud of me, Larry. I promise."  
  
"Mulder, it’s me. Fox…it’s Walter. You’re having a dream…a nightmare. You need to wake up now."  
  
Reality seeped back in slowly, and he found himself looking into a pair of warm, concerned brown eyes, not cold, watchful violet ones.  
  
"Wa…alter?" He asked, his teeth chattering.  
  
"Yes. Do you need some help or can you get out of there by yourself?"  
  
Mulder took a deep breath, trying to get some measure of where he was. "I can do it." He stood up, slowly, edged past the upturned bed, then stared in dismay at the wreckage of the room.  
  
"I’m sorry," he murmured. "I guess I trashed the place."  
  
"Never mind." Skinner was wearing a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, not even his glasses. He set the bed back on its legs, then began gathering up Mulder’s clothes, and hung them back in the closet.  
  
"Get back in the bed. You’re cold," Skinner said. Another order. Mulder did as he was told, mutely, the anger flaring and dying inside. Skinner finished putting his clothes away, and then came to sit on the side of the bed. "Who’s Larry, Mulder?" He asked gently.  
  
"I thought he was here. I thought he had found me," Mulder whispered. "I thought he was going to take me back."  
  
"Nobody is going to take you anywhere," Skinner growled, and Mulder flinched, visibly, and then hated himself for this instinctive response. Skinner took a deep breath, and pretended he hadn’t noticed. "Are you all right?" He asked. "Do you want me to stay?"  
  
"No." Mulder shook his head firmly. Skinner nodded, then got up, and walked over to the door. He stood there for a moment, clearly hesitating.  
  
"If you need anything…" He let the sentence hang.  
  
If he needed anything. Mulder knew what he needed. He needed to feel fingers in his hair, and arms around his body. He needed the kind of comfort that Laurence had offered, but without the price Laurence had demanded for it, and he hated himself for that need. He clenched his fists, resolutely, sinking his nails deep into his own flesh. He was stronger than this. He had to be.  
  
Skinner drove Mulder to his appointment with the psychiatrist a couple of days later. The agent had both looked forward to, and feared this appointment. If it went well then maybe they would let him return to his own apartment. Physically, he was in better shape. He knew he should eat more but he never felt hungry - that didn't mean he couldn't take care of himself though. He could. He just needed some time to gather his thoughts, and regroup. He always bounced back - always - no matter what injuries he sustained. He was strong. He had always been strong, and fit. He wasn't even sure that he needed a psychiatrist. Now that he was free, the past had taken on a hazy, indistinct quality. Had it really been so bad? He could barely remember. Mulder sat in the car next to Skinner, gazing out, listlessly. What was it like to be afraid of the outside world, he wondered. To be afraid of a car journey? The sky was so blue, and the sun was shining. What was it like to be so scared that you never experienced the beauty of such a day? Mulder feel unaccountably sad. He was almost relieved when Skinner parked the car and they were able to go inside, out of the light. Skinner escorted him up to the psychiatrist’s office - the big man was a constant presence, always hovering at Mulder's shoulder, which made Mulder resentful. It was as if Skinner didn’t trust him. Nobody trusted him to do anything alone. His life was no longer in his own hands. When he wasn’t a prisoner in Skinner’s apartment then he was being made to keep an appointment with a man he didn’t want to see.  
  
He was ushered into a plush room, containing half a dozen potted plants, their green fronds splayed against the walls. Mulder began to shake; he didn’t like this place. It reminded him too much of…hush, hush; stroke, stroke…of…of… A man walked towards them, holding out his hand. Mulder froze, and felt Skinner bump into him from behind. The psychiatrist was saying something, as he walked towards them. He was a thin man, with a shock of graying hair, and he was coming closer, and closer. Mulder was trembling in earnest now.  
  
"Mulder?" Skinner put a hand on his arm, and Mulder flinched, still gazing at the psychiatrist. His mouth was dry, and he was terrified.  
  
"Was it all a trap?" He asked Skinner, turning, trying desperately to find the door handle. "Did you bring me here to trap me?"  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
"I’m not fucking staying here," he hissed. "You can’t make me. Did you think you could make me? Is that what you wanted? Did you want him to ask me questions? To pry into my mind, and twist everything I say? Did he get to you?" Mulder looked at Skinner suspiciously. "Did he pay you to bring me here? Or has he broken you? Is that it?" His expression changed, and his mood darkened. "Have you been working for them all along? At the beginning, you had that cigarette-smoking bastard in your office. You knew where he lived…is that how they knew where to find me? Did you arrange that vacation for me on purpose?" His mind was making all kinds of connections, and it all suddenly seemed very clear; Skinner had been part of the conspiracy all along. "Did they send you to seduce me in Boston?" He asked. "Were you already working for them then, all those years ago? Had he already broken you?"  
  
"Who?" Skinner shook his head, bewildered.  
  
"Him!" Mulder yelled, gesturing at the bemused psychiatrist who was standing very still. "Him! Larry." He found the door handle, yanked the door open, and began to run, blindly, without even knowing where he was going. He heard footsteps behind him, and then Skinner was there again, following him.  
  
"Mulder." Skinner pulled him around. Mulder gave a hoarse yell, and struggled desperately, expecting to feel the sharp sting of the whip on his body. He tried to run. If he didn’t run for them then the dutymen would rape him, each of them, over and over again, and then they’d piss on his body just to drive home the message that he was nothing. Less than nothing. He couldn’t run though, because the big dutyman was holding his arm so hard that it hurt. "Did the psychiatrist remind you of Larry?" The dutyman demanded. "Did he look like the man who hurt you? Mulder? Mulder?"  
  
"He wanted to make me talk," Mulder whispered, confused. He was standing on the street, but he had no idea how he had gotten here. The sun was warm on the back of his head, and Skinner was looking at him with a strange, bemused expression in his dark eyes.  
  
"Yes, he does want you to talk. Hell, Mulder you have to talk to someone. You have to." Skinner loosened his grasp on Mulder’s arm, talking urgently.  
  
"I have answered enough questions to last me for the rest of my fucking life!" Mulder yelled, suddenly angry beyond belief. Pedestrians cast them nervous glances as they edged past the two men. "I am not doing it any more. Now get your fucking hands off me. Don’t fucking touch me… You don’t have…any…right…you don’t have…you don’t!"  
  
Skinner removed his hands as if stung, and Mulder turned, and carried on walking. Skinner didn’t follow. Mulder strode along the street, and then suddenly stopped, wondering where he was, and what to do next. He felt lost. He suddenly realized that he couldn’t make decisions any more. He longed for the comforting familiarity of Laurence’s salon, where he had no choice but to accept, and do as he was told. He turned, panic-stricken. Was this how Laurence had felt? Alone in a hostile world? He might have escaped, but he was still completely dependent on other people to make his decisions for him, and for someone so used to being strong, and independent, that hurt. He started to hyperventilate, looking around for help, hating himself for being so weak.  
  
A car drew up beside him, the door was pushed open, and he collapsed into the vehicle in relief. He hated himself for his pathetic acceptance of help, for not being able to solve the simple problem of how to get home by himself. He glanced at Skinner, and the other man gave him a tight smile.  
  
"I guess this means I screwed up my get-out-of-jail-free card?" Mulder murmured.  
  
"We’ll find another shrink," Skinner replied. "I think maybe a woman might be better? You were okay with that woman in the hospital."  
  
"Whatever." Mulder felt too tired and angry to think any more. He put his head against the car window, and watched the world go by. Hush, hush; stroke, stroke. If he was a good boy Larry wouldn’t whip him, but he wasn’t a good boy, so he had to be hurt. He shouldn’t have been born in the first place. He had ruined so many lives just by coming into existence. He caught sight of a man in the side mirror of the car, and gazed at him, in horrified fascination. The man stared back. He knew the man, but he didn’t recognize him. Maybe if he gave it enough thought he might remember the man’s name, but his head hurt, and he didn’t want to have to think.  
  
He lurched upstairs to the bathroom as soon as they got home, needing to wash, as he frequently needed to wash, several times a day. The cool water felt so good against his skin. There was even a new bar of soap – he’d already gone through the other one. Mulder picked up the soap, unwrapped it, and then lathered his hands, scrubbing them with the nailbrush. Soon he would be clean…soon he would wash away the events of the day…soon… The scent of the soap permeated his consciousness…lavender…it smelled of lavender… He gave a hoarse scream, turned, and, reaching for a towel, pulled one from where it was hanging over the wall cabinet behind him… where he had placed it to obscure the mirror…Haunted eyes stared back at him out of pallid skin, and he screamed out loud, shocked by the sight. Hush, hush; stroke, stroke.  
  
Mulder saw a fuck toy standing there. Someone who opened his mouth to suck other men’s cocks, someone who went down on all fours and let strangers fuck his ass, someone who deserved to scream under the whip because he should never have been born. He wanted to obliterate that image, to shatter it into shards and free himself from the haunting gaze of that man he didn’t recognize - the one in his own body.  
  
Hush, hush; stroke, stroke.  
  
He grabbed Skinner’s electric razor, and rammed it hard into the mirror, causing a great crack that made a noise like thunder. He saw the man reflected back at him, now in two grotesque pieces, divided by a jagged tear. It wasn’t enough. He could still see the man’s eyes. The man who was just an orifice, a receptacle, who had failed in every single relationship he had ever, haltingly, tried to form. He thrust the hard end of the electric razor back into the glass, shattering the mirror to smithereens. He could hear the sound of his own harsh breathing, as his arm beat out a rhythm on the smashed mirror. Little chips of glass were flying off in all directions, and his hand was bleeding. He heard a noise behind him.  
  
"Mulder, it’s okay. Mulder…give me the razor." Skinner reached out, and the keys in his jacket pocket clinked together as he did so. Clink, clink. It was the sound of chains being attached to a bed, or a post. Mulder dropped the razor immediately, and cowered down beside the toilet.  
  
"Don’t chain me," he whimpered, his eyes wide and frightened, hearing those keys coming clink, clink, clink, closer and closer. "Don’t chain me, or whip me, please."  
  
"I’m not going to. It’s all right."  
  
Skinner edged closer, and gingerly touched Mulder’s hair. Mulder leaned into the caress. If he could just make Larry pleased with him, then he’d be fine, and Larry wouldn’t whip him for smashing the mirror.  
  
"It’s okay." Skinner crouched down in front of him, and put his arms around Mulder’s shoulders, pulling him close, giving him that comfort he craved, the touch of warm hands on his skin, banishing the nightmares. When hands were stroking him then they weren’t hurting him. That was good. He clung to Skinner.  
  
"Please don’t whip me, Larry," he whispered.  
  
"Nobody is going to whip you, Fox," Skinner whispered gently. "You’re going to be okay. Just hold on to me. Everything is going to be fine. Hush, hush."  
  
Hush, hush; stroke, stroke…hush, hush…stroke, stroke…  
  
The words ignited something in Mulder that he couldn’t control. He felt the anger mushroom from the pit of his stomach to the top of his head, in a blinding, red flash. A myriad of images coalesced in his mind. He was on his knees, and he was on his back with his legs tied open, and he was on his front strapped down, his ass exposed – all at one and the same time.  
Hush, hush, hush…  
  
He was alone in the dark, being fucked by an endless procession of strangers he couldn’t even see, and at the same time he was kneeling in a smoky room, watching men watching him with predatory gazes, watching them fucking him…his ass, his mouth…and all the time he was writhing under the whip, and screaming, and being burned in the fire, and still screaming…and he was screaming out loud now, anger bursting out of him in an unstoppable wave, all of it directed at this one man because it was his fault…Larry had said so. Down in the basement, with that cold steel speculum wedged up his ass, Larry had told him that it was all Walter’s fault, and while he couldn’t remember why, he knew that was the truth, because if it wasn’t Walter’s fault then it had to be…  
  
Hush. Hush. HUSH.  
  
If it wasn’t Walter’s fault then it had to be…  
  
Your own fault, dear boy. For forcing your way into this world, for selfishly messing up your own life, and the lives of those around you…it’s all your own fault, my darling…all your own…  
  
The explosion came, ripping through his body and infusing him with an energy that he hadn’t felt in weeks, and he became a blur of angry action.  
  
"You bastard! You fucking bastard!" He screamed at the top of his voice. "You walked out on me. You fucking walked out on me." His fists flailed at Skinner’s body, attacking him. "You fucking, fucking bastard. I hate you, do you know that? When I was screaming, when he was raping me with that fucking cold instrument, all I could think of was that I wanted him to do it to you."  
  
He punched Skinner hard on the jaw, wrestled him to the floor, and banged the other man’s head onto the shards of glass, pummeling him constantly wherever he could find flesh in which to bury his fists.  
  
"I told him to do it to you. Do you understand me? So you can stop being nice, and kind, and looking at me with all that fucking pity because I wanted him to do it to you. I wanted him to hurt you. I needed him to hurt you. I could see you tied up on his table. I wanted it to be anyone but me. I sold you, Skinner. I sold you…I loved you, I loved you so much, and I sold you…"  
  
He was weeping now, the tears falling unchecked, his voice fading in anguished despair, his body racked with sobs. Skinner wasn’t moving. He accepted each punch, took every single blow, and while his hands flailed desperately, trying to ward the punches away from his face, he didn’t make any move to punch back. Mulder remembered a hallway a long time ago, remembered striking Skinner in the face, because he had to hit out at someone, and Scully had later asked him, "Why Skinner?" and he had replied that he didn’t know, but he had known. He had known then, and he knew now. "Because you walked out on me! Because I still fucking love you!" he screamed, demented. "Because you didn’t rescue me. Because I waited, and waited, and waited, and you didn’t come. You didn’t come… and I went to him. I went to him for warmth, and food, and comfort because I’m so fucking weak, and because you didn’t come."  
  
Mulder slumped down on Skinner’s chest, and held on, feeling as if the world was swimming around him. The only solid thing was Skinner’s body, lying underneath him, warm, and strong.  
  
"I tried. I tried," Skinner said, in a tone so broken that it sheared through Mulder’s consciousness. "I looked for weeks. I barely slept. I’m sorry I didn’t get there in time. I’m sorry."  
  
Mulder grabbed Skinner’s hands, and placed them around his body. "Hold me," he said, his teeth chattering. "You have to hold me. Please…hold me. Please." He wept into Skinner’s shirt, and the big man, sensing that the violence was spent, slowly, gently, rubbed circles on his back. They lay there for an eternity, bodies entwined, Mulder lying on top of Skinner, both heaving. Then, finally, Mulder broke the long silence.  
  
"Walter…they raped me," he whispered into Skinner's broad chest. "They raped me, Walter."  
  
"I know." Skinner’s arms tightened around his body. "I know, Fox. I know."  
  
Mulder lay there, hanging on to Skinner for dear life and the other man held onto him, his arms warm and strong around Mulder’s shaking body. Mulder wasn’t sure how much time passed as they both lay on the bathroom floor, a tangle of limbs, broken glass, and blood. Finally, Skinner moved under him, and Mulder whimpered.  
  
"It’s okay. I’m not letting go. It’s okay. I’m still holding you."  
  
Skinner slowly sat up. His wirerims hung from one of his ears at an incongruous angle, bent and broken. He got to his feet, gingerly, with Mulder still wrapped around his body, clinging on, like a baby monkey. Skinner kept one big arm around the younger man, and staggered them both back downstairs to the kitchen where he positioned Mulder in front of the sink, and turned on the faucet. He held Mulder’s cut hand under the water and Mulder watched the sink turn red, and then pink.  
  
"It’s okay. It isn’t deep. Hold on, I’m going to wrap something around it." Mulder refused to be left while Skinner grabbed a kitchen towel, so they both went together, still entwined. Skinner swathed Mulder’s hand in the towel, and then guided him back into the lounge. He sat down on the couch with an exhausted sigh, opened his legs, and settled Mulder between them, pulling him back against his chest. "It’s okay. I’m not letting go," Skinner whispered, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch, and folding it over both of them. "It’s okay," he said again, holding Mulder tight. Skinner removed his broken glasses, and folded them with one hand, his fingers shaking slightly. He placed them on the coffee table. They were silent for a long time. Skinner didn’t say a word. He just waited.  
  
Then, finally, Mulder looked up, and faced his reflection in Skinner’s eyes. The face he saw was his own; haggard, drawn, and pale, but unmistakably his own.  
  
"They didn’t just rape me once," he said numbly. "They raped me over and over again. Raped me, beat me, pissed on me. He, Larry…he wanted to break me. My father was there..."  
  
"Your father? I thought he was dead," Skinner stroked his arm gently with blunt, loving fingers that didn’t make him flinch.  
  
"He is." Mulder didn’t know where to begin, or how to explain any of it.  
  
Skinner continued to hold him tight, waiting, allowing him to take his time. This wasn’t like Laurence’s creepy comforting. Skinner’s hands were warmer, and much fleshier. They weren’t cold, or emaciated, or probing. They didn’t stroke one minute, and hit the next.  
  
"Whatever you want to tell me, you can. You can tell me all of it. I can take it, Fox," Skinner whispered, squeezing him encouragingly.  
  
"There was a room, Walter." Mulder stared into the void of his own memories. "A room where they tied me, like an animal. They gagged me, tied me down, and blindfolded me, and men came and just…just…they just forced their way into me as if I was a piece of meat." He clenched his fists, remembering the way he had faced down insanity in that room, and only barely emerged with his mind intact. Skinner's arms were steadfast around Mulder's body, but his body was tense, his muscles bunched, and hard. "I thought I'd go crazy in there, Walter. I saw my mother, my father, Scully…even you. I talked to all of you. You were so real. You were there a lot, Walter, not just in that room. But it wasn't you as you are now - it was you as you were back then, when we were…" Mulder let the sentence hang. "Another time they made me run for them, blindfolded. I was looking for the door, and they kept catching me, and whipping me, and raping me, over and over again. That was when they pissed on me. A whole group of them, crowding round me, and pissing on me as if I was nothing. That's what hurt. I was nothing. I wasn't human to them. I was…nothing. Nothing…" His voice faded, and he stared sightlessly into space.  
  
"You aren't nothing," Skinner said, his tone low, and fierce. Mulder looked up, startled. "You must never believe that. You matter - very much," Skinner said urgently. "However they made you feel you must remember that you aren't nothing because it's important, and it's true."  
  
Mulder moved his body, nestling closer as if he could somehow become part of the big man's body. He wanted to crawl inside the safety that Skinner represented to him and stay there forever. "You were always there, Walter. You were always beside me until he drove you away, and that's the kind of thing you always said to me when I was out of my mind with the pain, and the humiliation. They tied me down, stinking of their urine - they made me lie in it for hours, the stench of it all around me, and it stung like hell where they'd whipped me. Every time I thought it couldn't get any worse, it did. It did. What scares me most was how far out of my own mind I was. I was lost, Walter. For a while back there I was completely lost. I went on my hands and knees and begged men to fuck me. I held myself open, took them into my mouth…I was the whore Laurence wanted me to be and none of it even seems real now. Sometimes, when I have these flashbacks, it frightens me that I can be so out of my head again. That scares me."  
  
"The flashbacks will fade, in time. They did for me - but not until I dealt with what had happened to me in 'Nam," Skinner said, a calm voice of hope, in the midst of Mulder's confusion.  
  
"It makes a difference. Knowing that you kind of understand some of this," Mulder murmured. "I grew to loathe myself, Walter. I loathed my own weakness, and I hated the fact that I would crawl to that bastard, and beg him to hold me just because I needed comfort. I needed it so badly that I sold myself for it. I hate myself for that."  
  
Skinner's arms tightened around him, hugging him close. "Don't," he said firmly. "Don't hate yourself - hate him, but don't hate yourself. Christ, Mulder, you have to believe that this Larry is a monster. You did nothing, nothing to deserve this. He's evil."  
  
"Intellectually I understand that." Mulder nodded. "Emotionally, it's a different story." A memory of himself, on his knees, being enticed to open his mouth assaulted him, and the breath left his body in a gasp. Skinner clasped him even closer, and Mulder could feel the tension radiating from the other man. "Oh christ, Walter," Mulder whispered, hanging on to the other man's arm, finally understanding something that had eluded him before. "The worst of it wasn't even the torture... the worst of it was the way he made me feel by the things he said. They were so nearly the truth, and I was hurting so much that I couldn't think straight. He made me believe things...he said things..." Mulder stared sightlessly ahead. The knowledge that being raped, tortured, and degraded wasn't even the root of his most intense pain hurt him all over again, filling the empty void in the pit of his stomach with a raging despair that he didn't think would ever go away.  
  
"Whatever he said, you can't believe it," Skinner growled, his voice low, and ragged.  
  
"Ah, but the trouble is that some of it was probably true," Mulder whispered, plucking at the blanket with his fingers. "He said I was out of place, that I didn't belong, and he was right. I've always been on the outside. It took him to make me face up to myself." He gave a mirthless, staccato laugh. "All these years chasing aliens, and I never understood that I was seeking myself - I'm the alien, the stranger. I'm the one who doesn't belong. I externalized my own feelings of displacement, of being 'other'."  
  
"I don't pretend to understand that," Skinner said. "You're different, yes, but that just makes you unique - something special, someone to be valued. I always felt that way. I could sense it the moment I first met you - I expect that most people can. I can see it might be alienating for you, but for us...it's entrancing having someone like you around."  
  
Mulder looked up, surprised at the depth of emotion in Skinner's voice. The other man gave a watery smile, and continued.  
  
"When I was in that OPR hearing a few years back, the investigating agent said that I was enchanted by you, as if you'd placed a spell on me. He didn't understand - he saw your unique talents as a threat. You scared him. People can be afraid of your sheer brilliance, Fox. It's the downside of your particular brand of genius." The big man brushed blunt fingers through Mulder's hair, his expression thoughtful. "This bastard Laurence saw that brilliance too, but he made it into a weapon to beat you with. He wanted to possess it, maybe - to have it brush off on him, by virtue of association. Maybe, he even fell in love with it. God knows, that would be an easy thing to do." Skinner took a sharp intake of breath. Mulder felt a tension inside ease. Whatever he saw in Skinner's eyes was not disgust, or even pity - compassion, yes, but then Skinner was an eminently compassionate man. What he saw in his eyes though, was the same light he had seen years ago. A light he had been so sure was gone that he had never even tried to look for it since. Without that light, he couldn't have said what hurt him most; he wouldn't have had the strength to face it alone.  
  
"Laurence told me I was dispossessed. My own father sent me to him, to finally claim a kinship with me that he had denied all my life." Mulder felt the pain, raw and unfettered, tearing at him with its poisonous claws, ripping into him from the inside out. "I am my father's son, Walter. I can see it now, so clearly." He gazed unflinchingly at the tiny pin-prick reflections of his own gray, haggard face, encapsulated in Skinner's irises. "My father's son." He hunched, miserably. "I wear his face. I have his genes inside...and he offered me up to this."  
  
"Who...?" Skinner frowned, looking down. His fingers gently traced lines over Mulder's features, inherited from a man he had despised for most of his life. Mulder made no reply, just watched as the realization dawned, slowly, in Skinner's dark brown eyes. "Oh Christ. Fox...I had no idea..." Skinner's fingers lingered a moment on his cheekbones, brushing softly over his skin. Mulder almost expected the other man to flinch from the likeness he saw, but instead there was just a grim acknowledgement of something that, now it was in the open, seemed almost obvious. "Listen to me," Skinner said urgently. "One thing that I've learned from being with you, and dealing with you over the years, is that you are your own person. Not just somebody's son. You're a hell of a lot more than just a collection of genes."  
  
"He called me illegitimate. Out of place. Someone who doesn't belong and wasn't meant to be." Mulder hugged his own arms around his body, trying to still a pain that, now awakened, would be with him forever. He was wearily aware of how easily Laurence had exposed his central core, stripping away all the veneers of his safe, controlled, adult life, and reducing him almost to the level of scared, hurting, needy child.  
  
"That's crap." Skinner's voice had a grim, unequivocal force, cutting through his pain like a knife lancing an abscess. "Fox, surely you understand that - on an intellectual level at least. Hang on to the rational thought, and dismiss everything else. However we come into existence, we all of us have a right to be here. To even suggest anything else is so warped that it defies belief."  
  
It was the voice of reason, and in being so was less compelling than Laurence's seductive insinuations that had chimed so completely with emotions Mulder had experienced all his life, seeming to validate them. Strange how Laurence's lies were more appealing in many ways, than the stark, less emotive truth. Mulder didn't doubt that Skinner was right - but making himself believe it emotionally would be a tougher task.  
  
"I'll admit that I have a hard time understanding how your own father could do something this evil," Skinner said softly. "But it's his problem, Fox. It has nothing to do with you, or your worth. Christ, the man doesn't even know you. All these years watching you, manipulating you, and he never took the time to actually get to know you. Being a father is more than plain biology. That cigarette smoking bastard forfeited any claims of kinship when he allowed this to happen to you," Skinner said firmly. He grasped Mulder's face, gently, between his two large, warm hands. "Believe me, Fox."  
  
Mulder swallowed hard. Skinner's brown eyes were so strong, so steadfast and reassuring...which only served to make the guilt inside rise up once more, worse than ever.  
  
"There's something else. Something…something I have to tell you." Mulder took a deep breath. "When it was at its worst, when he was torturing me so much that I couldn't bear it any more…he made me…he gave me a choice. He said it could all end if I would just…" Mulder hesitated, and then lowered his eyes, unable to meet the other man's searching gaze. He couldn't look Skinner in the face when he said this. "All I had to do was ask him to torture you instead of me. He wanted me to betray you, to sell you out…and I did, Walter. I'm sorry. I asked him to torture you instead. I begged him to torture you." Mulder gazed at the blanket covering his shaking body, feeling numb. "I'm sorry," he whispered again. "I'd like to say that I didn't mean it when I said it, but what scares me is that I did. I would have done or said anything at that moment…anything to stop the torture."  
  
"I don't think any of us know how we would endure what you went through," Skinner said softly. "I don't blame you, Fox. Not for that, and not for anything else. You don't have anything to feel guilty about."  
  
He waited, his hands still holding Mulder's face, stroking the younger man's cheeks with his thumbs. Finally, Mulder found he could look up, and meet that gaze again. He felt as if a great weight had been lifted, and now he started to talk more freely, less haltingly. Once he began, his words came out in a torrent, and he couldn’t stop them. He spared Skinner none of it, partly because he knew Skinner would not want to be spared, and partly because he had no control over what he was saying. It came out in disjointed bursts, not in the order it had happened, but as it sprang into his mind. Every time he thought he was done, he’d remember something else, and start again. Outside it grew dark, and then, only a short while later it seemed, it was light again. Sometimes, when Mulder looked up for reassurance, he saw that there were tears in Skinner’s dark eyes, but the other man said nothing to stop Mulder’s flow of words. Finally, all talked out, they both just lay there, winded and exhausted. An hour passed, in total, necessary silence.  
  
When Skinner eventually spoke it was halting, and pained.  
  
"Fox, I'm sorry that I couldn't save you from what you went through. I'm more sorry than I can ever say, but you have to know that I looked. After I saw that video I don’t think I slept again…"  
  
Mulder made a small sound in the back of his throat, his airways constricting as he remembered that video. "Oh fuck…" He remembered being on his knees, sucking that dutyman, and talking to him like he was in some kind of porno movie. "What did you think when you saw me…like that?" He asked, shaking.  
  
"What did I think?" Skinner sounded surprised by the question. His muscles bunched up tightly against Mulder’s body. "I’ll tell you what I didn’t think - I didn’t for a moment think you were acting willingly, of your own volition. It gave me some idea of what they must be doing to you and I felt so fucking helpless. I was half out of my mind with worry. I searched, day and night, called in every old favor I could think of, and all the time I was torturing myself with what might be happening to you, and the terrible thing is that even my worst nightmares didn’t come close to the truth."  
  
Mulder looked up, and, for the first time, saw that Skinner’s jaw was bruised, and his head covered in tiny red wounds from the broken glass.  
  
"Oh shit. I hurt you. I’m sorry," Mulder said.  
  
"It’s all right. You always did express your own pain through anger, and this was a big pain. It doesn’t matter. I’ll survive. I...didn’t know you still loved me. You never gave me any indication…"  
  
"Stubborn, misplaced pride." Mulder shrugged. "You walked out on me, and I never forgave you for that. I know I pushed you back then. You probably didn’t even realize that I had my own bag packed, ready to flee because the emotions just got too intense. I wasn’t ready for that kind of love."  
  
"I don’t think I was either." Skinner smiled, gently, and touched Mulder’s hair softly with his fingertips. "I had issues of my own."  
  
"Why didn’t you ever tell me about ‘Nam?" Mulder frowned. "I asked you once about the scars on your back and legs, and you just brushed it inside but it was always there between us. I always wondered why you couldn’t tell me…and when you did finally tell me, it was years later, long after our relationship was over."  
  
"I wanted to give you an explanation. You wouldn’t let me talk about what had happened between us. I wanted to explain, in some measure, why I was so screwed up all those years ago. I might have been older than you, but I’d seen things…I’d learned certain ways of coping that shut you out. You’re right. I should have told you. It’s just that some things are too hard to share, especially with someone…you love."  
  
"Yes," Mulder replied blindly. He saw himself flailing under a whip, kneeling and taking a cock into his mouth, begging faceless men to fuck his ass. "Yes," he repeated.  
  
"I knew Sharon before I met you," Skinner said, slowly, with great difficulty. "We broke up because I never got over ‘Nam. She gave me an ultimatum – see a shrink, or she’d leave me. I let her move away to DC. They didn’t have many counselors in those days, and my PTSD remained undiagnosed for a long time after ‘Nam, and, to make matters worse, I was very confused about my sexuality. When I met you, everything seemed so clear. I loved Sharon – she was a good woman - but there was never anything in my life to compare with the way I felt about you. I didn’t want to leave, but I knew I’d destroy you if I didn’t go. Sharon was right, and you were right; I needed to sort my life out, in more ways than one. When I heard about this brilliant new agent in Quantico, years later, I knew it was you before anyone even said your name. I followed every single profiling case you solved, and when the X Files came up for supervision I leapt at the chance. Every single feeling I had for you came back the day I met you again in my office, in a way I hadn’t expected… and could never have anticipated. I kept a tight rein on my feelings in those early days because if I hadn’t…I think they would have driven me insane."  
  
He stopped, took a deep breath, and then continued.  
  
"I know we’ve had our fights, and our misunderstandings, but I was always, always on your side. I tried not to let my feelings show, but Sharon knew something was wrong. Our marriage had been on the rocks for some time - I talked about you almost constantly at home, and she just tuned into the fact that something wasn’t right. I loved her, but I knew I wasn’t in love with her. Maybe I never had been. It was hard letting her go, but I didn’t want to keep ruining her life. I didn’t hold out any hope…that is, I never expected…" Skinner hesitated, and then plunged in again, trying to find the right words. "When I first saw you again I wasn’t even sure if you remembered me. It was a long time ago, after all, and you must have had plenty of lovers since then."  
  
Mulder snorted. "Not really. I never really got over you. Lousy timing." He made a face. "I met the right person, but at the wrong time."  
  
"We could…" Skinner hesitated. "We could put that right? You can stay here for as long as you like. You have a lot of healing to do, but I’ll be beside you, every step of the way, if…I mean, that is…if you want me here," he finished, his tone shy, unsure, and almost hesitant. Mulder had almost forgotten this side of his lover; the side he only showed in private. "Oh shit. I'm sorry. This is probably the wrong time again." He looked confused and guilty for having raised this issue after all that Mulder had been through.  
  
"No." Mulder said, softly. "No, Walter. It isn't. I think that now might be exactly the right time. I need you, and…we never talked much of love back then, but I'm too old and tired now to care if I sound stupid. I still love you, have done for years. If nothing else, my time with Laurence showed me that particular truth. Fucking ironic isn't it? To find out something so important in such a way." He gave a grim, mirthless chuckle. "I was an idiot to let you go, Walter. I want you back."  
  
"You've got me. As for it sounding stupid - I think we should have allowed ourselves to sound stupid a long time ago because I never stopped loving you either." Skinner gave him the smile he remembered from his youth. Age hadn’t dimmed the effect it had on him. Mulder traced a finger wonderingly over beloved, remembered lips.  
  
"Killer smile. Thought you’d lost that. Glad you haven’t," he murmured. Skinner dipped his face, hesitantly, and then stopped, clearly remembering Mulder's need to be in control. Mulder didn't have any reservations; he lifted his face and claimed a kiss from Skinner's waiting mouth. It was just a touch, nothing more, but it warmed Mulder all the way to his core, replacing the cold emptiness inside with a sense of contentment, and hope.  
  
"Mulder…Fox…this was just a first step," Skinner said, in a warning tone. "There’s still a long road ahead."  
  
"I do know that," Mulder said, but after the long hours of talking he felt more optimistic that he would be able to make the journey back to normality, and at least now he knew there would be someone by his side all the way. "I’ll go back to the psychiatrist."  
  
"Good. And we’ll catch the bastard who did this to you." Skinner said in a low, growling tone. "I promise you that, if it’s the last thing I ever do."  
  
"Walter, these men won’t ever pay for what they’ve done," Mulder said wearily. "That’s why it hurts so much. They’ve been getting away with this for years. You’ll find that you won’t be able to get a search warrant, or an arrest warrant, or that there will be watertight alibis. You won’t get a case anywhere near court and, even if you do, all your main witnesses will be involved in mysterious accidents, or they’ll just disappear."  
  
"We can’t just do nothing. This Larry could be out there hurting someone else, raping some other poor man or woman as we speak. We can’t just allow that to happen," Skinner said stubbornly.  
  
Mulder couldn’t help smiling. This was the man he remembered so well from 18 years before. "Walter, you never did understand the nature of evil, and how it can always find a way to evade the law," he murmured.  
  
"Maybe not, but I refuse to just stand by and let innocent people suffer because I didn’t have the guts to at least try and bring the culprits to justice," Skinner said in a voice like stone.  
  
"Walter, you’re wrong. I know you’ve lived all your life by the law, but you’re wrong. These men are beyond justice."  
  
"I find that hard to accept. I might not be able to accept it," Skinner said stubbornly. "I want to kill the bastard who did this to you, Fox." His body was trembling, and Mulder knew how much effort it had taken for the other man to just sit here, listening and holding him, when he wanted to be out, pursuing the justice he still believed in so strongly.  
  
"I know," Mulder replied. "I know, but I don’t want to spend my life chasing vengeance when I don’t think we stand a chance of bringing these people to justice. I want to get over this. I want to carry on with my life – and I want to rediscover what it was like being with you."  
  
"Okay." Skinner nodded and pulled Mulder even closer. Mulder went willingly, feeling comfortable and secure for the first time in a very long while. "Look, Fox…you have to help me here. I’ll do whatever it takes to help heal you…I just need to know what it is you want of me."  
  
"I don’t know what I want, Walter. It’s too soon." Mulder allowed himself to relax so far into the body of the man under him that he felt as if they had become one warm mound of flesh. "I just know I need you."  
  
"I’ll be here." Skinner's voice was tense, and choked. "Always."  
  
Mulder raised his hand to Skinner’s face, and stroked gently. "Hush," he said, and then froze, waiting for the whispers to start up, waiting to hear that familiar litany, hush, hush; stroke, stroke...  
  
…But this time it never came.  
  
*****  
  
Mulder stared down at the cars, crawling like tiny colorful dots on the ground below, far beneath the 17th floor balcony. He heard Skinner come in, and then the sound of footsteps behind him.  
  
"Hi." A hand slid around his shoulder, and he accepted a kiss on his cold cheek. Mulder turned, and smiled. His lover was wearing a red shirt; they had gone out and bought him a half dozen of them, at Mulder’s insistence, despite Skinner’s repeated protestations that he was more into earth colors these days, now that he was getting old. Mulder refused to accept that age had anything to do with it – Skinner was certainly looking younger than he had for years. They both were.  
  
"Shit, it’s cold out here. What are you thinking?" Skinner asked, staring at the cars below. "Not about jumping, I hope. My cooking isn’t that bad."  
  
There was an edge of worry in Skinner’s voice, despite the joking tone. Mulder had come a long way over the past eight months, but he still had his dark days. After his break-through conversation with Skinner, Mulder had also spoken at length with the other person he loved most in the world: Scully. That hadn't been easy for either of them, and there were many details that he just couldn't bring himself to share with his diminutive partner, but she had a clinical, detached, doctor's air about her, which helped get them both through the trauma of that conversation. Between them, Scully and Skinner had helped Mulder take his first, tentative steps towards recovery. Returning to work had helped. He was delighted to be back with his beloved X Files, solving the cases that were meat and drink to him.  
  
When he had felt ready, Mulder had made the first, tentative step towards resuming some kind of sex life. Later, when the results of his HIV test had come back negative, they had graduated, slowly, beyond kissing, and fondling. Mulder still wouldn’t allow his lover to penetrate him, but Skinner had always enjoyed being on the bottom more anyway. Skinner had no problem with allowing Mulder to call the shots in the bedroom. That worked for both of them, and gave Mulder the control that he badly needed. There were still times when Mulder would freak out, and have a flashback, but they were becoming fewer. Mulder had worried at first by how turned on he was, and how much he wanted to have sex. He felt like a permanently hormonal teenager, barely able to take his hands off his lover, sporting a continual erection. He wondered whether this might not be Laurence’s sick legacy to him, but his psychiatrist had pointed out that one thing had remained constant throughout his time in captivity – Skinner turned him on. He always had. Mulder was more relaxed about his sexual feelings now. He accepted that they were his own, and that he had a right to them, and, if he was honest, his sex life with Skinner was pretty damn good. Their relationship wasn’t always easy, but they both worked hard at the issues. Mulder knew he was happy – happier than he had ever thought he could be.  
  
"No. I wasn’t thinking about jumping. I was thinking about Laurence."  
  
"You okay?" Skinner slid his arms around his lover’s shoulders, holding him, as he always did when they talked about Laurence. After their return to work they had searched for Mulder’s torturer for several months, but Mulder had been proved right. It was impossible to even find Laurence – Mulder had no idea where exactly in New York City he had been held, and every single avenue of investigation turned out to be a dead end. Laurence was, it seemed, protected by very powerful men, but Mulder had already known that. He hadn’t really anticipated bringing his torturer to justice.  
  
"Yes…no…I don’t know." Mulder struggled with his emotions. "I received a letter today." Mulder looked down on his closed fist, within which, clutched deep inside, was a crumpled ball of thin, white paper. "From Krycek." Mulder examined his lover’s reactions as they flitted across the dark expressive eyes that he had learned to read so well.  
  
"And?" Skinner kneaded Mulder’s shoulder gently with his fingers, and Mulder leaned back into the caress, relishing the warmth of his lover’s body in the cold, evening air. They had both discovered that Mulder had a great need for physical reassurance. Quite simply, he loved to be touched. It was a comfort he had denied himself for many long, lonely years, and his time with Laurence had brought the need into focus. He was still wary around other men, and only really relaxed in the company of Skinner, or women. If any man other than Skinner tried to touch him, even to shake his hand, then he often flinched, almost instinctively. They were working on that with the aid of the psychiatrist.  
  
"Laurence is dead." Mulder felt sure that the words should have meant something to him, anything, but they didn’t. He was numb inside, still struggling to come to terms with the news. Skinner’s eyes flashed, but he held back his instinctive reaction, and waited for Mulder to continue. "It would seem…" Mulder cleared his throat. "It would seem that he had terminal cancer. That was partly why he was so thin, and partly, I think, why he was so desperate to have one final conquest - me. He was diagnosed just before I was abducted."  
  
"So he knew he was dying?"  
  
"Yes. He was seeing a doctor in New York – or rather a doctor was seeing him. He wouldn’t go to a hospital, so he was visited in his salon. It was a particularly nasty cancer – he died an agonizingly painful death. Krycek seemed to take considerable satisfaction in that. Maybe, one day, I will as well."  
  
"So, justice caught up with him in the end." Skinner gave a grim smile. Mulder looked up, questioningly. "Natural justice," Skinner grunted. A gust of cold wind made Skinner’s shirt billow like the red sails of a yacht on a stormy sea. Mulder looked down on the street, a long way below, and all the tiny dots that were people and cars moving around down there.  
  
"Bitter," Mulder murmured.  
  
"Hmm?" Skinner frowned.  
  
"Bitter - Laurence always smelled of lavender, and something else, something bitter. I never knew what that was until now. It was the smell of impending death, Walter. My grandmother smelled the same way before she died. I don't know why I didn't figure that out before."  
  
"Did Krycek say anything else?" Skinner asked.  
  
Mulder shook his head. "No. Krycek didn't." He felt goose bumps break out on his flesh, and shivered.  
  
"Fox, are you sure that you're okay with this?" Skinner's warm, strong arms formed a protective circle around his lover, and Mulder leaned back against that solid, comforting body, and closed his eyes. Was he? It took him a little while to answer that question.  
  
"Yes. Yes, I’ll be fine. I just need…some time alone." Mulder disengaged himself, and pushed his lover back into the apartment. "Go and start dinner. I’ll be in soon." He smiled reassuringly, and the other man deposited a kiss on his forehead, and then, reluctantly, went back inside.  
  
Mulder gazed down at his fist, which was wrapped so tightly around the scrap of paper inside that his knuckles were white. He hadn’t told Skinner about the other letter, the one Krycek had enclosed with his own: the one from Laurence. He would, very soon, but right now he just needed to figure out a few things alone. Slowly, he opened his fist and smoothed out the thin, white, sheet of paper that he had crumpled into a tiny ball. It was written in dark, navy blue ink, the meticulous precision of the lettering marred by a slight shakiness of the hand, signifying that the writer hadn’t been well when he penned it.  
  
"My darling boy,  
  
I couldn’t go without saying goodbye. I’ve missed you, dear heart. The salon really isn’t the same without you. I hear that you are living with Walter Skinner, and I take some pride in the knowledge that I helped bring you two love birds back together after so much wasted time. I do hope you’re enjoying your young lawyer’s strong arms. I’m sure you understand that I’m speaking from personal experience when I say that sometimes the reality can be so much less fulfilling than the fantasy.  
  
I have very fond memories of our time together, and I know that you think of me often, as I do of you. You were the culmination of my life’s work, and a very worthy adversary. I can die a happy man knowing that what we shared was truly special, and that I live on forever in your heart.  
  
Farewell, darling boy. Farewell.  
  
All my love, always,  
  
Your Larry."  
  
The scrap of paper was as thin and pale as Laurence’s flesh had been. The wind rustled through Mulder’s hair, like cool fingers, caressing him with its icy, inhuman touch. It danced around his head, whispering to him; "Farewell, darling boy. Farewell." Inside the apartment, Mulder could smell dinner, and could hear his lover whistling tunelessly as he worked. It was cold out here. Inside, there was food, warmth, comfort, and genuine love, and there was no price to be paid for any of those things any more.  
  
Mulder opened his hand, and allowed the scrap of paper to rise into the air, carried away by the wind. It did a slow, graceful dance in mid-air, and then paused for a moment, hanging there, as if held in place by an invisible thread. Then the wind caught it again and the paper lightly darted forward and gave him an elegant little bow, as if in acknowledgement, before it swooped away into the darkness of the city below.  
  
Mulder watched until it was out of sight, and then he turned and walked back into the warm.

 

**The End**

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